Desperate Measures
by Ace of Gallifrey
Summary: Enjolras's father is trying to control his son, and he's finally found a way: forcing a marriage. Needless to say, Enjolras is not happy about this and takes matters into his own hands, creating a whole new set of problems along the way. ExE
1. Prologue

**Title-** Desperate Measures**  
>CharactersPairings-** blatantly E/E, featuring any and all of the Amis, including Bahorel who should _not_ have been left out of the musical!**  
>Rating-<strong> T**  
>Summary-<strong> Enjolras's father has spent years trying to control his son, and he thinks he's finally found a way: arranged marriage. Needless to say, Enjolras is not happy about this, and takes matters into his own hands. Unfortunately, his method of doing so creates an entirely new set of problems. Getting married to a near stranger to avoid a much more unpleasant marriage wasn't what he had in mind, but it's his only viable solution. Shame the girl he's marrying is in love with one of his closest friends...

**A/N-** This plot is so cracky it's pushing the limits even I will go to. Believe me. I'm aware it's utter crack. I know that. But it was an idea that flatly refused to leave me alone, and if I was going to ever have a moment's peace, I was going to have to write it. I therefore solemnly promise that even though the plot is wholly ridiculous, it will not be in any way arbitrary or contrived if I can absolutely avoid it, and everyone will be as in-character as I am capable of making them.

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><p><em>Prologue<br>July 29, 1830_

Twenty-one-year-old Antoine Enjolras walked down the Rue Royer-Collard at sunset, his arm slung around the shoulder of his best friend, François Combeferre, carrying a musket in his other hand. Though their grimy faces, disheveled clothing, and slow pace spoke of exhaustion, their broad grins and the slight spring in their step suggested that whatever it was they had expended their energy on had been utterly worth every moment.

Enjolras was the taller of the two, but despite this he looked much younger. His golden hair was pulled back in a queue and his vividly blue eyes were dancing with the adrenaline-filled excitement that keeps men on their feet when all other reserves of energy have been sapped. Combeferre, by contrast, was of that dark complexion common to the southern provinces, his curly brown hair cropped short and his deep brown eyes half-concealed behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

"This, my friend, has been a glorious day," Enjolras said, his uncharacteristic grin growing even wider. "This is the day the people of France take back what is ours."

Combeferre nodded wearily. "Assuming, of course, that a solution agreeable to all can be reached as to what manner of government we shall build in the ruin of the old."

"True."

"This has been a very strange three days," Combeferre added. "I must confess, I expected more..._ disorder_ from a revolution."

Enjolras shrugged. "When the mind is bent on the extirpation of tyranny and censure, it cannot also turn to looting and wanton destruction."

"Perhaps. I rather suspect that not everyone sees it that way, however."

"They ought to."

Combeferre laughed and attempted to ruffle his younger friend's hair, causing Enjolras to scowl and duck away from him.

They reached the building, right in the middle of the block down which they had been walking, which housed both their apartments.

"This, Antoine, is where I leave you. When things were heating up on Tuesday, I promised Élodie I would visit her when it was all over. I expect she'll be _very_ pleased to know that I'm still alive..." He trailed off suggestively.

"You disgust me," Enjolras said, but he was grinning. Combeferre had been chasing the pretty girl for months, and all she had done was flirt shamelessly and run away. It had been quite the merry dance, and Enjolras couldn't see why his friend put up with it, but it was still nice to see him happy.

Combeferre went his way. Enjolras entered the building with a nod to the porter and ascended the stairs, thinking longingly of his bed. He had run out into the streets the morning before and hadn't been home or rested since. When he opened the door of his flat, however, he knew at a glance that he wasn't likely to get any sleep for awhile yet.

Standing in the middle of the parlor was his father. Olivier Enjolras was a tall, imposing man who looked very similar to his son. He had been a general under the Restoration, and had retired some eight years previously, content to rest on his inheritance. He carried his cane with the casual air of a gentleman content in the knowledge of his own wealth and desirous that those around him be made aware of that same knowledge. Upon the entrance of his son, he regarded the younger Enjolras with the cool eye that precedes the calm fury of the bourgeois who does not wish to make a scene.

"Hello, Father," Antoine said, making a point not to sound as wary as he felt.

"Antoine." The tone was as cold as the gaze. "What is it you are carrying?"

"It is a musket."

"And why, pray tell, do you have a musket?"

"Because I was fighting."

Olivier nodded, his face very grave. "I thought as much."

The son looked steadily at the father. "What are you doing in Paris?"

"News of the... disturbances... in the city reached us yesterday. Your mother was worried for your safety, and I took a fast horse immediately."

"I see."

This was the usual way of things. The father was angry and the son was defiant, but neither would let more than the slightest reflection of it show in their faces. Once a sufficient period of dancing around things had elapsed, then would come the raised voices and the outright fury (usually on both sides). Antoine expected that he would tonight be on the receiving end of another one of the angry lectures he had become used to over the past few years.

Tonight, however, Olivier seemed to have reached some sort of epiphany- or else he had simply reached the end of his rope. He said tiredly, "You disappoint me."

"Father-"

"No, Antoine. For once, you will not speak, you will listen. You are a rare young man. I know this. How could I forget? Your mother is constantly reminding me. Ever since you have come to Paris, you have... changed. You have these ideas in your head, and you refuse to listen to reason! I suppose you really do mean well, but you must see it's not natural. A country without a king is like a body without a head! A state cannot function without firm guidance from a-" His voice had been steadily rising, but seeing his son's face grow darker, he broke off abruptly. He took a breath, then continued in a much calmer tone, "No. No, I didn't come here for that. I am done arguing with you, Antoine."

He took a step towards the younger man and laid a graceful hand on his shoulder. "You are my only son," he said softly. "And I want to be proud of you as a father ought to be. But then you go and do things like this... you take part in this foolish uprising that's little more than a street riot-"

"There is a significant difference, Father, between the tumult of a riot and the unanimous voice of the Revolution."

Olivier closed his eyes in the manner of one who is trying to put a check on his temper.

"I think, my son," he said when he had calmed himself enough to look at him again, "that you are leaving me only one option. You are coming home with me, now."

Antoine looked his father dead in the eye and smiled. "I don't think so. Classes resume in three weeks; I cannot put aside my studies." Technically he could have. He stood to inherit an incredible sum of money; he didn't need the law degree. But, in the creed of the Enjolras family, what was wealth without power? To gain power, Antoine Enjolras had to begin as a lawyer. He was counting on this line of reasoning in his father, in order to have his way.

Olivier, as expected, frowned. "I am not going to tell your mother you were part of the fighting," he said. "It would break her heart."

"Perhaps she is stronger than you give her credit for," Antoine countered.

Olivier did not choose to respond to this. "This is not over, Antoine. You cannot rebel against the crown and by extent your family, without consequences. I have tried to be gentle with you in the past, because I know you're a good boy. However, you leave me no choice. In future, you cannot expect me to be so reasonable."

"Do what you like, Father," he replied firmly. "Cut me off, even disown me if you like. You cannot change what I know in my heart to be true."

Enjolras the elder gave his son a steady look. "Well then, I shall have to think of a better way to bring you to heel," he said plainly.

Antoine was not surprised by this statement; he had heard this sort of language frequently in the past three or four years. There was rather more resolution in his father's voice than at any previous time, but realistically there was nothing he could do that would change anything.

Famous last words.


	2. 1: Unwelcome News

**A/N-** Eponine here is the same Eponine appearance-wise as the one in Castles on Clouds. If you haven't read that, go to my profile, look up CoC under my list of ongoing stories, and click the link in the description to see the painting on which I based Eponine's appearance for that story.

For those of you who haven't read the book, according to Hugo (whom I think I would consider an authoritative source LOL) the Amis were _certainly_ already in their formative stages this quickly after the July Revolution.

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><p><em>Chapter 1<br>October 26th, 1830_

Enjolras was deeply absorbed in the book in front of him. He had read it before, but Aristotle was always worth a reread. Unconsciously, his lips shaped the words he was reading as his eyes moved across the page. _"We must now consider the views of those who are agreed in accepting the general principle that a life of goodness is most desirable, but divided in their opinion about the right way of living that life. Two different schools of opinion have thus to be..."_

"Monsieur Enjolras?" The soft, slightly raspy voice issued from his left, and a hand pulled on his sleeve.

He glanced up and just barely repressed a grimace at the mournful sight before him. It was Pontmercy's little friend, the gamine who had the annoying habit of following the young man around like a lost puppy and staring at him longingly with those large brown eyes that seemed even bigger than the really were because of her emaciated appearance. He was pretty sure that Marius was the only one who hadn't figured out that the girl had feelings for him.

"What is it?" he asked tiredly. Lord in heaven, he had enough to do without dealing with whatever... what was her name? Something odd... some name from an old story... oh, it would come to him eventually...

She bit her lip and blushed, which _almost_ made her look pretty. "Is Monsieur Marius going to be here soon?" she asked.

"No, Courfeyrac said he was likely to be late tonight."

"Why?" she asked, eyes widening still further. "Is he alright?"

Enjolras sighed. _Leave me alone_, he thought._ Go away and let me finish this chapter before the meeting starts_... "No, he's perfectly fine. He just has a rather lengthy thesis due for Blondeau tomorrow, and he's procrastinated as usual." Éponine! That was her name! Yes, he knew he'd remember it eventually! "You're welcome to wait for him, Éponine, if you'll be quiet and not get in our way."

Éponine grinned broadly. "Oh, I promise I'll be quiet!" she exclaimed. "I've a lot of practice at keeping still; my father doesn't like us getting too noisy when he's home!"

"Yes, I'm sure," Enjolras said absently, his book already luring his eyes away from her.

He heard the clunk of boots that seemed to indicate that she had gone away to perch on a chair in the corner, and shook his head. He felt badly for the poor girl, he supposed. He did not know much about her beyond what was obvious to the eyes, and her painfully obvious infatuation with Pontmercy. Still, she seemed a good sort. Pathetic and horribly abased, to be sure, but Pontmercy spoke well of her and that was a high enough recommendation that the rest of the Amis did not mind her constant presence at the back of the group. If anything, she served as a reminder of what they were trying to achieve (of what, he thought painfully, he had thought they had _already_ achieved not even three whole months previously).

And that was as far as that train of thought got before the words on the page sucked him inexorably back in. _"Two different schools of opinion have thus to be discussed. One is the school which eschews political office, distinguishing the life of the individual freeman from that of the politician and preferring..."_

* * *

><p>He did not, as it transpired, manage to finish his chapters before the last stragglers came boisterously through the door (including, he was displeased to note, the drunkard Grantaire), obliging him to return his bookmark to its duty and pay attention to what was going on.<p>

As he circulated through the little clusters of people absorbed in individual conversations that always begin to form in crowded rooms, he wondered at the back of his mind how this had even happened. In July, it had seemed like everything was solved. One Louis-Philippe later though, and here he was, not only a part of the opposition to the monarchy, but actually apparently a leader of the movement (even if said movement only existed in taverns and the backs of cafes). He decided it was probably Combeferre's fault. Combeferre had been the one to introduce him to Courfeyrac, and it had all happened nearly by itself after that.

He supposed if he remembered to later, he would have to thank Combeferre. It was always better to _do_ something instead of just _think_ about it, and certainly it was better to be doing as part of a concerted whole, rather than one lone man stewing away in private outrage.

The evening passed in the usual manner, full of discussion and the occasional burst of ire from one party or another. Around nine-thirty, Pontmercy stumbled into the room, looking as if he had been run through a press, his cravat hanging askew and his hair sticking up in odd places. His dark eyes were bloodshot and exhausted.

"The second-year thesis for Blondeau?" Christophe Bahorel guessed immediately.

Marius nodded wearily. Before he had time to say anything, Éponine was at his side, hanging on his arm and pulling him quickly over to her little table in the corner. Enjolras vaguely observed the pair out of the corner of his eye for a moment, watching her apparently fuss over him, before his attention was distracted by a man who had just poked his head in the door.

The young man looked to be about Enjolras's own age or perhaps a bit older, with curly light brown hair and friendly hazel eyes. His clothes were threadbare and he wore spectacles, and his expression was a little nervous. "Is this... is this the, uh meeting of les Amis de l'ABC?" he asked cautiously.

"Welcome, friend!" Courfeyrac said warmly, though careful not to confirm or deny what the newcomer had asked. "What is your name?"

"I am called Patrice Feuilly. I heard of the Amis from a neighbor of mine a few days ago... Raoul Montagne?"

At the familiar name, Courfeyrac's caution fell away. "Ah, yes, we know Raoul quite well! And he thought to send you our way? How good of him. Come in, Patrice Feuilly, make yourself right at home! Allow me to introduce you to our fine company!" And with his usual attitude of warmth and magnetic charm, Courfeyrac led the bewildered young man through the room, talking cheerily and rapidly in a manner Enjolras suspected had been perfected for the sole purpose of making anyone and everyone feel welcome. Courfeyrac was good at that. Within minutes, Feuilly seemed as at home as if he'd been coming to their meetings all along, and Pontmercy was asleep on the table, with his gamine friend running her fingers through his hair with a look of bliss on her face.

* * *

><p>Enjolras left the Cafe Musain that evening as part of a group composed of himself, Combeferre, Grantaire, and the newcomer Feuilly, who had proved to be quite the talker, and amazingly well-informed. Grantaire was leaning heavily on Enjolras, singing loudly and surprisingly well for someone as intoxicated as he was.<p>

"Good Lord, how much have you had?" Enjolras muttered angrily, trying to push the drunkard off him.

"Not near enough!" Grantaire cried jubilantly, breaking off in the middle of some very lewd alternate lyrics to the tune of the Marseillaise. He attempted to put his arm around Enjolras's shoulder and only succeeded in losing his balance; he would have fallen if Combeferre had not reached across very quickly and steadied him.

Feuilly looked skeptically at Grantaire. "Is he always like this?" he asked.

"Yes," Enjolras growled.

"No," Combeferre overrode emphatically. "He's actually quite pleasant when he's sober. Well, he's a good fellow when he's drunk, but when he's coherent it's much easier to talk to him. Enjolras just doesn't like him because he can't stand his lack of ideals."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "If he doesn't care about the cause, he would do much better to stay out of our way, rather than cause a scene at practically every meeting."

"You, Antoine, are exaggerating."

"And I'm also the one who will end up half-carrying him home, so I'll thank you to let me continue."

"Perhaps it would be best to just call a fiacre for him," Combeferre suggested.

Enjolras shook his head. "At this hour? Unlikely. I'll take him home," he said with the air of a martyr.

This he did, and it took less time than he had anticipated to haul the intoxicated man up the stairs and into his apartment. He deposited the mumbling Grantaire on his sofa and left him there, caring little that he would wake up with a sore neck to match his sore head, and exited the building as quickly as possible, making for his own street, thinking that if he were lucky, Combeferre would still be awake and they could continue the discussion on the subject of literary trends they'd been having earlier in the day.

When he arrived at the door of his building, the concierge addressed him politely: "Monsieur, I have your mail."

"Thank you," he said absently, taking the envelope the portly little man was offering and heading for the stairs. Once inside his apartment, he looked at the letter, addressed in his father's handwriting. He slit the envelope open and pulled out the single sheet of paper contained therein, which was covered in the same writing. He began reading, not expecting much of interest (letters from his parents rarely contained any), but halfway down the page he stopped, blinked, and forced himself to start again from the beginning, sure he must have misread somehow.

He hadn't.

"_Merde._"

* * *

><p>"Are you serious?" Combeferre asked twenty minutes later. They were sitting next door in his parlor, and Enjolras was staring at the piece of paper in his hand in utter disbelief. He had abandoned his hat and his coat, and was sitting with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbow, the picture of stunned agitation.<p>

"So it would appear," Enjolras replied. "My _wonderful_ parents have decided that it time for my days as a bachelor to come to a rather abrupt end."

Combeferre seemed torn between sympathy and laughter. "I cannot picture you married," he said.

"I have absolutely no interest in the whole institution," Enjolras said darkly. "I haven't the time for that sort of nonsense! I have _things _to do!"

"I seem to recall you being quite the romantic, once upon a time," Combeferre teased.

"Yes, when we were _thirteen_," Enjolras protested. "I grew out of it, and I sincerely wish you would forget!"

Combeferre smiled. "Not a chance, _mon ami_."

"And of all the women in France they could have arranged a marriage with, it had to be _Hyacinthe Guillory_! Good God, François, do you remember when we were all children...?"

"She followed you everywhere."

"Yes! I swear, she was the most annoying creature on the face of God's good Earth! And time has not improved her, if I recall."

"Well," Combeferre said thoughtfully, "She _is_ quite beautiful, after all."

"Beautiful!" Enjolras exploded. "What do I care for a beautiful girl? All beautiful girls are just alike! I'll have none of this!"

His friend looked at him. "I've often wondered, Antoine, where this aversion to romance comes from."

"It comes," Enjolras said, with the weary patience of one getting very tired of explaining the same point repeatedly, "from a great many things, François, as you know only too well. It's a waste of time, and besides, it's not as if there is a woman out there really worth the expense or the bother! Don't think I don't recall how long you moped all those years ago when that girl you were trying to court got married right out from under you! I see no reason to put myself through it all, for a reward that isn't worth the cost. I have more important things to worry about."

"So jaded," Combeferre said, a sad smile on his face. "It _is_ worth it, Antoine, whether you'd like to believe it or not. You just hold your standards much too high."

"My standards are _not_ the point," Enjolras said, "Especially seeing as my right to choose has just been ripped out from under me."

He was quiet for a long moment, then burst out loudly, "It's not as if this is _really_ about my mother being worried about me remaining a bachelor for life, either! This bears all the hallmarks of my father's interference. He thinks if he forces me into a marriage at once, I'll _have_ to come home and play at being the good royalist son he always wanted. He's trying to manipulate me!"

Combeferre gazed at him steadily. "Then the question is... are you going to let him?"

"No."

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** Question of the Day: why do so many people assume that Enjy and 'Ferre have known each other for so long? I mean, it's an assumption I'm _so_ not challenging (quite the opposite, as you can tell), but where does it come from? It's not like there's anything in the book to indicate they knew each other before coming to Paris, and Combeferre (like most of the Amis except Enjy and R) hardly exists in the musical! You should leave your thoughts in a _review_...

Also, is there by chance anyone out there who understands the irony of the name Hyacinthe?


	3. 2: The Restless and Uneasy Mind

**A/N-** I am very in love with this story. Especially now I figured out how it's going to end. For the record, there will be two endings: the really sucky, sad one that I would make the "real" ending if I had _real_ writer's balls (and for my own stories, I do... but when I write fanfic, it's because I want a happy ending, dammit!), and the happy-but-majorly-bittersweet ending that's going to be the official ending. I'll post both once I get that far, and you can choose which one you prefer to think of as how this story ended. Both are surprisingly meaningful, as far as that goes, for wrapping up a plot that's basically crack-in-a-jar.

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><p><em>Chapter 2<br>November 14th, 1830_

The back room of the Musain was mostly empty. It was not an occasion for one of the Amis regular meetings. However, a few of the chiefs of the Amis had gathered anyway; namely Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel and Joly.

Bahorel was talking. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with wiry brown hair, badly dressed, and Enjolras had to confess that when he had first met the man a year previously, he had not liked him very much. He had thought him lazy and impetuous. Time and exposure, however, had taught him that there was much more behind those laughing brown eyes than he had ever expected. He had a warm openness about him that seemed to embrace everyone within his circle, and Enjolras found that he couldn't help but enjoy spending his time in the other man's company.

"I'm sorry," Bahorel was saying. "I did my best, but the polytechnical students I've been speaking to are going to take rather more convincing before they come around to our way of thinking."

"So we've made no progress at all in that quarter?" Combeferre asked.

Bahorel shrugged. "They are agreeably disposed toward us, but content for present to leave it at that."

"Dammit," Enjolras growled. He had hoped so much to gain the cooperation of the polytechnicals, for they were an invaluable resource among the many flavors of students that inhabited the academic underworld of Paris. It was doubtful that their movement could gain a sufficient following- among students, at least- without their support! He slammed his fist down on the table in front of him in exasperation and rose to his feet abruptly, pacing a tight little line along the length of the table they were gathered around.

"Dammit!" he repeated. "Do they not understand? Do they not know that to be content to give up their rights as a citizen, their right to liberty, is to carelessly surrender their value as men? How do they not see?"

His agitated reaction was stronger than the situation called for, even in a man given to passionate response with regards to his cause. Even he was aware that he was reacting too strongly, and was therefore not altogether surprised when Joly spoke up.

"Enjolras, you have seemed rather choleric lately," the young medical student said, scrutinizing him closely. "Irritability, I understand, is often the result of parasites in the intestine. Are you sure you-"

"I'm _fine_, Joly," Enjolras snapped. "It's... I'm perfectly fine."

Joly raised his eyebrows, but seemed willing to let the subject drop. Enjolras did, however, take note of the meaningful look he shot at the other two, which Bahorel returned.

"What?" he demanded.

Bahorel shrugged. "You _have_ been very on edge lately, you know."

Enjolras groaned. This was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid with his decision not to tell anyone but Combeferre about his parents' attempt to interfere in his life (again). Combeferre knew him well enough to allow him to handle it in his own way; his other friends would only get more involved than he wanted them to be.

"Can't a man simply have a bad week without his friends assuming something must be drastically wrong? If it was Laigle you wouldn't bat an eye!"

"That," Joly pointed out, "is because when Laigle has a bad week, he responds with good cheer, rather than snapping at everyone around him and overreacting violently to nearly everything."

"I haven't been... have I?" he glanced at the other two.

Bahorel nodded; Combeferre grimaced. "You have been a bit out of sorts," he said quietly.

"I imagine there's something wrong, then?" Joly asked.

Enjolras shook his head firmly. "I'm fine."

"Except for the fact, _mon ami_, that you are quite plainly troubled," Bahorel spoke up.

"It's nothing I can't manage!" Enjolras replied firmly. "I apologize if I've been unpleasant to be around recently, but it's really nothing of any concern to any of you." He gathered up the pile of books he had brought with him to the cafe. "I think perhaps it would be best if I went home now. We are really not getting much accomplished."

"Who says we need to get anything done to make lingering here worthwhile?" Bahorel protested.

But Enjolras would not be dissuaded. He left the room after a polite but abrupt goodbye. As he strode purposefully down the street, he heard a shout behind him and paused to see Combeferre running to catch up. The shorter man made an amusing sight, having left his hat behind in the cafe.

"Antoine!" he said, upon reaching his side. "I guessed you didn't want to talk about it with the others around- of course you wouldn't- but really, you've been on edge since the letter from your parents. And it has gotten worse since yesterday. Has something else happened?"

Enjolras rubbed a hand across his jaw tiredly. "Yes," he confessed after a moment. "I wrote back to my father immediately, of course. I told him that with two more years of study still ahead of me, it was the worst imaginable time for me to make such a commitment and that I couldn't in good conscience obey this particular wish of his."

"Logical enough, I suppose," Combeferre said musingly.

"I received his reply last week."

"And?"

"He proposed two solutions to that quandary. Under the first, I am to suffer a long engagement until my education is complete, during which time I would, in all likelihood, be forced to court Hyacinthe against my wishes and pretend to be the overjoyed to be engaged to her. Under the second, I am wed in the spring, and have the entirety of June and July to get used to being married before taking up residence in a nice little house in the Marais and returning to school as a "happily" married man with my wife at my side. According to my father, it is- and I quote- "unusual but not unheard of" for a young man to take a wife before he has finished his education."

Combeferre chewed his lip. "Clever. It would appear he's very determined about this."

"Of course he is!" Enjolras spat. "It's his most concerted effort yet to force me into being exactly the sort of son he always wanted! Perhaps if I had a brother, I wouldn't even be in this bind."

"If you had a brother," Combeferre replied, "You would mould him into a perfect replica of yourself, and then your father would be dissatisfied with you both."

This, at last, coaxed a little smile out of Enjolras, the first time he had smiled in weeks. At that moment, he was grateful to have a friend like Combeferre. His oldest and dearest friend, who really was the brother he had never had by blood, always knew just the right thing to say. But before more than a few moments had passed, Enjolras felt the little sting of his predicament prickling at him again.

"I, of course, replied as quickly as possible to my father's letter. Reasoning didn't work, so I tried flat-out refusal."

"I take it that did not help, either."

Enjolras shook his head, a small, dejected motion. "I don't know how I'm going to get out of this, François," he said very quietly.

Combeferre touched his shoulder. "We will find a way," he reassured. "Put aside writing back to your father for a few days, and we will think on it. I am sure we will come up with something."

Enjolras smiled his thanks. Then he looked at Combeferre quizzically and asked, "Have I really been that hard to deal with these past days?"

"Unfortunately. Everyone's noticed."

He winced. "Oh."

"Yes. Do you think perhaps we should just tell them what's happened? I mean, not _everyone_, but those of us who've been together the longest- Courfeyrac and Laigle and Jehan and the rest?"

Enjolras shook his head. "If I can think of a way to just take care of this quietly, I'd rather no one ever know. Perhaps if I can't find a way to resolve this... _situation_ soon, we might ask someone for advice... Marius, perhaps. He is, I understand, rather experienced in managing overbearing parents."

Combeferre smirked. "Yes, so Courfeyrac says."

"But until we start running out of options, I think I'd prefer to avoid the embarrassment. You know that Grantaire, at least, will never let me forget this if he ever finds out."

"I have no doubt of it," Combeferre replied. After a pause, he asked, "If it were anyone besides Hyacinthe, would you be protesting this strenuously?"

Enjolras looked thoughtful. "Probably not. I object to the entire idea on principle, of course. The fact that my parents have landed on Hyacinthe as my bride-to-be-" He shuddered slightly as the words left his mouth. "-Just happens make the whole situation worse."

"Because she knows all of our embarrassing tales from our boyhood?"

"Because she knows them and it would never even occur to her to use it against me."

Combeferre looked at him strangely. "You, my friend," he said, "are a very odd man."

"So you remind me. Frequently." The two friends shared the kind of look that can only pass between two people who have known each other since very early in life, and who have shared much, if indeed not everything, with the other. It was a look of censure without rebuke, and of that deep understanding of the other which only comes with the very closest of brotherhoods.

Combeferre clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. "Go home, get some sleep, stop worrying for a few hours. We'll find a way to keep you content in your bachelorhood, I'm sure. I'm going to go back to the cafe... I seem to have abandoned my hat!"

"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice that."

Combeferre threw him an ironic look as he turned away. Enjolras watched him go for a moment, then turned and made off in the opposite direction, feeling more certain and more at ease than he had in two weeks.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** I love having the chance to really write the Amis, you know that? It gives me (and I suppose you, as well) a chance to glimpse them outside their noble sacrifice, to remember that these are _people_ as well as symbols, and to bring them to life with that in mind. Unfortunately, I speak hardly any French, so I can't roll out the _endless_ series of French-based puns that Hugo did with regards to the Amis... I'll give it a go, but if it fails, you will never read it.

Reviews, por favor?


	4. 3: An Absurd Proposal

**A/N-** And this is where the already unlikely plot gets ridiculous. Please bear with me as we suspend disbelief; I believe I have done a credible job with this particular quirk of the plot, and I hope you won't see it as going _too_ far beyond the realms of possibility... XD And yes, I have snatched some elements from the novel for my use, even though this is principally musical-based (mainly because this plot would _never_ work in the book fandom... I know the limits on how far I can bend reality...).

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 3<br>November 19th, 1830_

During the ensuing days, Enjolras went about his normal business during the day, attending his classes and met twice with Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Laigle at the Corinth to discuss strategies to draw the polytechnical students closer to an alliance. In the evenings, Combeferre crossed the hallway and together they tried to concoct a strategy for extricating him from his impending engagement. So far, precious little inspiration had come to them.

Enjolras felt pensive and worried over the predicament, but Combeferre continued to reassure him that they would find a way eventually, and so he tried his best to put it out of his mind. He had other things to put his mind to; he hadn't the energy to waste worrying over it. Not that telling himself that had helped much.

On the evening of the nineteenth of November, he was walking to the Musain in the company of Courfeyrac, whom he had met on the boulevard.

"Tell me about that new man who's been coming to the meetings, that Feuilly," Enjolras said, "I've had things on my mind, and haven't had the chance to speak much with him."

"You _have_ seemed preoccupied," Courfeyrac agreed. "Feuilly paints fans for a living. Rather nice ones, too- he showed me a bit of his work. He is a good sort, I think. Certainly well-informed, better than most of the students I know, which is surprising."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Well, he was an orphan, you see. Everything he knows, he taught himself."

"Impressive."

"I thought so. Anyway, he's quite the eloquent fellow. Talked my ear off on the subject of Austria last week. I think he'd give even Grantaire a run for his money for sheer long-windedness," Courfeyrac said with a grin.

"And unlike Grantaire, it can be assumed that he has something to say that is worth hearing," Enjolras added, drawing laughter from his companion.

On this note they reached the cafe and entered to discover the majority of the group already present.

* * *

><p>Within an hour, any semblance of an orderly meeting had dissolved. The handful of more casual attendees that existed had filtered out, leaving only the oldest and closest lieutenants in the cafe, plus the new addition of Feuilly. Grantaire and Joly were playing chess with Laigle looking on and making occasional dry commentary. Jean Prouvaire was waxing eloquent about the many and apparent charms of some grisette of whom he was enamored, with Bahorel listening (or possibly pretending to listen... Jehan frequently repeated himself on this particular subject, they had discovered). Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Marius and Combeferre were grouped around a table, drinking and laughing.<p>

Enjolras, for his part, had retreated to a table on his own, not far from this last group. He had laid out a pair of books on the table in front of him, and was perusing them eagerly. They were two of his school books, and he was determinedly searching through them in the hopes that some solution to his predicament would present itself from within the most obscure depths of French law.

He was, however, quickly becoming discouraged. He had thoroughly scrutinized every law in both books pertaining to the institute of marriage, and not a single loophole to extricate himself from an unwanted engagement had turned up. In a fit of desperation, he was now examining a handful of rather obscure laws relating to the regulations of inheritance, in hopes that there might be something of value there, though it seemed unlikely.

While he was thus occupied, Combeferre left the group he had been sitting with and came to join Enjolras at his table. "Have you found anything?" he asked in a low voice.

Enjolras shook his head, lips pursed in irritation. "Nothing," he replied. "I discovered that there is, in fact, a loophole in the inheritance tax that a clever married couple might be able to exploit, but that is as close as anything has come at this point."

Combeferre looked at him with concern. "How many of these have you gone through?" he asked, gesturing at the books.

"All of them," Enjolras said with a heavy sigh. "Or so it feels. I have re-examined every book of law I own, and quite a few housed in the library... nothing. Not even one clause in one obscure and outdated regulation..." He ran his hands through his hair and brought his forehead to rest on his palms, the picture of a frustrated intellect.

"I thought surely there _must_ be something..." Combeferre said, also looking disheartened.

"But then, what would you know about the law, anyway?" Enjolras muttered peevishly. Then he lifted his head from his hands. "I'm sorry, François. That was uncalled for."

"You are worried. It is only natural to be a little abrupt. Although I must say," Combeferre added, smiling now in an attempt to coax a similar response from his friend, "I do not know many men who would be this desperate to avoid a marriage with Hyacinthe Guillory."

Perhaps he spoke a little too loudly, because Courfeyrac, hitherto engaged in some sort of debate with Marius, looked up at this. "What's this I hear?" he asked, calling the attention of the entire room with his deliberately carrying voice.

"It's nothing," Enjolras replied quickly.

"Really?" Courfeyrac said with a sly tone. "Because I do believe I heard someone say the word 'marriage.' Is _that_ why you've been so surly and odd lately, Antoine? Have you at last found a woman to strike your fancy?"

Enjolras's expression turned stormy, and Combeferre spoke up, "Quite the contrary. His father is trying to arrange a marriage to a childhood companion of ours, and Enjolras wants no part of it."

"Well, that _does_ make more sense," Courfeyrac replied, no longer ready to tease but instead to advise. With the exception of the bewildered Feuilly, everyone in the room was aware, whether by way of direct experience or by gossip, of the tumultuous relationship between the Enjolras men. Within moments, the whole group of them were clustered together, with the exception of Laigle, who had apparently decided to take pity on the fan-maker and explain this nuanced dynamic to him.

"Let me guess," Bahorel said. "It's yet another attempt to make you give up on the idea of revolution?"

"Very much so," replied Enjolras, who found himself torn between annoyance at their attention and appreciation of their immediate grasp of his situation.

"And, being Antoine Enjolras," Joly added, "You will defy him."

"Of course," he said, slightly irritated.

"The difficulty comes," Combeferre took it upon himself to explain, "From the fact that we're having a rather difficult time finding a way to do so."

Immediately the air was full of flying suggestions, everyone in the group speaking simultaneously, throwing out ideas and debating them. Enjolras bit down on his lip to stop himself from smiling. Even though he suspected he would never hear the end of having been caught in such a plight, and even though not one of their suggestions was likely to prove helpful in the slightest, he felt warmed and reassured to be able to call such men friends.

For several minutes the discussion was unintelligible, but gradually the company separated into smaller factions as they were wont to do, all of them debating in little groups the increasingly unlikely methods for avoiding a wedding.

All at once, Grantaire's voice could be heard rising above the low hum of voices. "The thing is," he was saying, "if he were already married, he wouldn't be able to get married _again_, would he?"

Combeferre, who had been listening patiently to whatever point Grantaire was making, laughed openly. "You must be mad!" he exclaimed, drawing the attention of the company to a central focus once more. "Trying to fake a marriage? What good would that do?"

"No, not fake a marriage," Grantaire said doggedly. "He could actually _get_ married. But to someone who doesn't put him off as much as this lovely Hyacinthe apparently does."

"Good luck finding someone who fits that description," Bahorel muttered with a grin.

Enjolras shook his head. "Grantaire, as usual, you are proving to be of absolutely no use."

The drunkard, however, seemed very pleased with his brainchild, and refused to give up that easily. "No, see, you're averse to the whole idea of matrimony, so what do you do? You marry a girl who knows that. It would be a marriage by law, but because she knows how much you hate the whole idea, it wouldn't be a _real_ marriage, if you get what I mean..." He sent a meaningful look in Enjolras's direction, and Enjolras glared at him. "This way, you flout your father's control with no chance of him finding a loophole in _your_ loophole, do you see? You've reached your majority, after all. Tell them that you eloped in secret a few months ago. They are annoyed, but in a way they've got what they wanted, haven't they? It's the perfect plan!"

Jehan shook his head. "But think of the poor girl!" he exclaimed. "What woman would be willing to live in a sham of a marriage, forsaking love?"

"One very interested in his inheritance, I would imagine," Joly suggested.

"An attitude which would make me wholly uninterested in tying myself to her," Enjolras pointed out.

"Rendering the entire proposition void," Jehan finished.

At this moment, another voice spoke. "Actually," it said, "Grantaire may be onto something."

Throughout this whole exchange, Marius had been sitting quietly at the back of the group, observing the discussions with a thoughtful look on his face. It was at this moment, when the debate seemed about to turn in another direction, that he spoke thus.

"What do you mean, Pontmercy?" Enjolras asked.

Marius took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Well, obviously, already being married would be an ideal excuse not to marry this Guillory woman," he said slowly. "But finding the right girl would be the problem. Nearly impossible, you agree?"

"Yes," Enjolras said emphatically.

"I think I may know the girl."

"You're kidding!" cried Laigle.

"Doubtful," Joly muttered simultaneously.

"Who?" Combeferre enquired.

Marius smiled. "You all recall my friend Éponine?" he said.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then the majority of the young men burst out laughing, leaving Enjolras to stare, flabbergasted, at Marius. "Pontmercy," he said, "Are you delusional? Have you actually _seen_ Éponine? My parents would never believe that I had an attachment to her strong enough to provoke an elopement!"

At this, Marius shook his head in protest. "No, think of it! Eponine's pretty, you've all seen her! She's been living rough for several years now, but imagine if she were dressed up as a proper young lady? And besides... maybe this way I can pay her back."

"Pay her back for what?" Feuilly asked, speaking for the first time since the subject had been brought up.

Marius shrugged. "When I first left my grandfather's house, before Courfeyrac took me in, I was living in a very poor tenement. I couldn't afford anything else, you see. Éponine and her family were my neighbors, and she looked out for me. She shared what little she had with me, and once she stopped me from being robbed. She threw herself right between myself and two armed men without a second thought! I owe her a great deal but... well, in my current financial state, I really have no way to help her. But if she married _you_..."

He looked firmly and directly at Enjolras.

"It would be a chance for her to rise above her abasement, you see! She was raised properly; you can tell just to hear her talk. It was only once her family took heavy financial loss that her situation became so degenerate. She's clever, you wouldn't _believe_ how quickly she can think on her feet! And you know what else?" It was plain from Marius's expression that he was quite pleased with this last point more than any of the others. "Éponine is as averse to marriage as you are! She told me once that she did not think she would ever get married!"

_Yes_, thought Enjolras (and probably every other person in the room with him), _because she's so blindly in love with you that she will never look at another man._

"It's nearly perfect," Marius said, seeming to like his idea the longer he talked on it. "It would take a bit of work, but just think- it would save you from being trapped in a marriage that comes with all the... obligations that entails-" Saying this, Marius turned a bright shade of pink, his youth and inexperience displayed clearly in a blush. "-And Éponine would be off the streets. She'd be beyond the reach of her father. It would be a very convenient arrangement for you both."

Enjolras shook his head. "This is mad. You all agree with me, don't you? Pontmercy's lost his head at last!"

For the most part, he saw expressions of agreement on every face, or at the very least, amusement. Combeferre, however, looked rather thoughtful.

"François?" Enjolras asked.

"Actually," Combeferre said slowly, "it's actually not a terrible idea. It's not a flawless plan, but it just might work. Didn't you say that the overt reason your father gave for arranging this marriage was because your mother was afraid you'd remain a bachelor all your life?"

"Yes."

"Well, they couldn't really object to your already having found a wife, could they, as you've reached your majority? If we were still in the South, it would be frowned on, but this is Paris! Stranger things have happened! And Marius has a point- underneath those rags she wears, Éponine has rather nice features. A bit tall to really be beautiful, but I suppose that wouldn't be so noticeable beside you, would it? And it's plain to the eyes she's a gamine, but if she were cleaned up and well-fed... who knows? She might even be pretty."

Enjolras shook his head. "You say her family is objectionable? It would be ridiculous."

"So we pass her off as an orphan!" Marius suggested. "It's easy for records to be lost or shuffled around, and as her father goes by as many false surnames as he can count on his fingers, he isn't going to want anyone looking too closely into his life... it would only take one word with the prefect of police to have him in jail- that threat alone would be enough to keep him quiet and set 'Ponine free."

"Besides," Combeferre said with an amused grin, "I'm quite sure the whole of Lyon has known since we were fourteen that you were going to cause a scandal of one kind or another someday, Antoine."

"I imagine," Bahorel muttered under his breath, "that they never suspected it would be _this_ kind..."

"This is ludicrous," Enjolras said, but the fight was going out of him. As far-fetched as this plan of Marius's was, as far as he could see it was the only viable option he had at present. He still felt an objection to the idea, but he had been more than a little swayed, out of desperation more than anything else. Still, he wasn't willing to just fall in line with this madness. "I hardly know the girl!"

"As if that's ever stopped anyone," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"Yes, and it has led to many an unhappy marriage," Enjolras argued. "_That_, at least, I of all people ought to know."

Marius found it an appropriate time to make another plea on his young friend's behalf. "Come, at least think on it, won't you?"

Grantaire interjected, "Yes, Enjolras. Perhaps now you will show us whether you are a true friend of the _abaissé_ or not." Pleased with his joke, he leaned back in his chair with a smile on his face.

Enjolras glowered at the smirking drunkard, wishing desperately he could think of a clever retort on the spot. Frustrated, he said, "Fine. Next time Éponine is here, we will discuss it with her. But I, for one, sincerely doubt that she will want anything to do with this insane plot."

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** I think that last line may have been a little bit meta... ;P

Reviews? Pretty, pretty please? I hate to beg, but I will stoop that low if I have to...


	5. 4: Engaged, In a Manner of Speaking

**A/N-** So, I just spent half an hour doing preliminary research on the history of marriage ceremonies and marriage law in France. Turns out that civil ceremonies were the norm even back then. The religious ceremony was optional (and usually the source for all the pomp and circumstance of it all). I'm very glad, because it makes this the direction this is taking much, much easier on me. I'd have rolled with it either way, but I'm glad it's working in my favor! Still haven't turned up much on the actual practices and regulations, but I'm sure I'll dredge up something eventually!

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 4<em>  
><em>November 20th, 1830<em>

The next evening, Enjolras found himself glancing more often than was perhaps normal at the door. The consensus that had been reached regarding himself and Pontmercy's little friend had weighed on his mind throughout the day, and he found himself anxious to avoid the discussion he knew would come the next time she stepped through the doors of the Cafe Musain. Up until the night before, Éponine had been, for the most part, a fixture of the surroundings. He pitied her and tried to ignore the pain on her face when Marius said something careless. Now, though, he was actually facing the thought of marrying the girl, and he wondered if she would seem any different with that prospect in his mind. He had often observed that one's perception of a thing depended heavily on the context within one's own mind. These particular circumstances did not make him eager to test this.

Well, maybe God would give him a reprieve and she wouldn't come to the cafe on this particular night. She didn't come every night, after all. Who knew? Maybe she would stay away for a whole week, or even longer...

But just as he was thinking these pleasant thoughts, the door opened and a familiar head of tangled hair poked inside. Éponine's eyes found Marius, and she immediately lit up with a smile and scuttled over to him.

_Dear God_, Enjolras thought. This _is the creature they want me to unite myself with?_

Éponine really could not have been more than sixteen. He had seen marriages involving much wider age gaps before, but to his eyes she seemed hardly more than a child... a child made ancient by her desperate conditions. He supposed Marius was right in one respect- she did have good features. She had been badly used by life, and no one in their right minds would call her pretty, but there was a hint of potential in those high cheekbones, the delicate jaw, the intelligent curve of her brow. However, her skin was tanned from too much time in the sun, and her eyes were bloodshot from exposure. Her hair was a ratty mess of indeterminate color (though he thought it might be dark or possibly red underneath the layers of grime) and her clothes... well, her modesty was preserved (barely), but that was all that could be said of her apparel. She bore, as usual, an expression that spoke vaguely of snide cynicism.

As soon as Marius saw her, he tossed a reflexive glance at Enjolras, who simply nodded. He was secretly grateful that Marius seemed willing to take on the responsibility of approaching Éponine. If it had been leading an attack on the Tuileries, he would gladly have taken charge, but having such an incredibly unorthodox conversation with her was beyond his capabilities at present. He could only watch helplessly as Marius turned back to the girl, took her arm (to her obvious delight) and led her to a secluded corner.

The conversation the majority of les Amis had been involved in carried on uninterrupted, but Enjolras noted that his was not the only pair of eyes that continued to dart over to the corner with some regularity. He kept most of his attention focused on a middle-aged workingman who was rather ineloquently expounding on the potential consequences of Lafayette's reemergence as a political figure, but he also watched the pair in the corner with interest, trying to guess what was being said.

Marius spoke for several long minutes, and Éponine listened with a growing expression of confusion. At one point, she backed wildly away from Marius as he tried to lay a hand on her wrist, eyes wide. She spoke, apparently asking some question, and her expression was a mixture of shock and painful hope. Marius gave his inaudible reply with a warm smile on his face, and Enjolras watched as the hope disappeared immediately, leaving her dark eyes blank. She nodded and gave a very brief reply. Marius's grin widened, oblivious to the fact that whatever he had said had obviously hurt her, and he clapped her jovially on the shoulder. He said a few things more, in response to which she only nodded, then left her sitting on her own to rejoin the main group.

Marius approached Enjolras. "I explained things to her," he said in an undertone that only the blond would be able to hear over the din of conversation. "She seemed receptive enough to the idea, but she wants to speak with you privately after the meeting tonight."

"Very well," Enjolras replied. Rather than waste his energy fretting, he turned away from Marius and devoted his attention whole-heartedly to the ongoing discussion.

* * *

><p>Enjolras had very quickly become absorbed in the meeting and he very nearly forgot about Éponine by the time the group was beginning to disperse. If it hadn't been for Marius tugging on his coat sleeve and reminding him as he was about to walk out the door in company with Combeferre, he likely would not have remembered at all.<p>

He sighed. His head was spinning with ideas and he wanted nothing more than to go home to his flat and think for a bit, perhaps put a few of his worthier thoughts down on paper. This was unfortunately rather important, though, so he waved the curious Combeferre on out the door and turned back to the nearly empty room.

The girl stood by the fire, and the orange glow cast her face into sharp relief, highlighting her emaciated appearance. As he crossed the floor, passing by the last stragglers on their way out as he went, she studied him intensely. Few of the young women he had ever encountered were bold enough to meet his eyes directly; it was more common to see a brief moment of eye contact followed by a downturned look and a demure smile. Enjolras found himself a little unnerved by her direct stare.

He reached her and for several seconds they looked intently at each other. Then Eponine smiled a bitter smile and said, "Well then," with the attitude of one who knows exactly what she wants to say, but isn't quite certain she should say it.

"Well then," he echoed, feeling as uncertain as she sounded.

She continued to study him intently, before saying abruptly, "Some days I see you on the boulevard. Sometimes I have thought about speaking to you, but you wouldn't recognize me out there, so I never have."

"I have a very good memory for faces," he responded, not quite sure what to make of her statement.

"Well then, you're better than most. I have to be honest, I'm a little unnerved by you," she said. Then she smirked, straightening her spine to look him dead in the eye. "But you see, I'm Éponine Thenardier and I'm not afraid of anything, so that ought not happen. You're very intimidating, but I won't be afraid of you."

Her bluntness unnerved him as much as he apparently did to her. She seemed very frank, and he could make nothing out of where she was going with this. When she continued, it seemed that she had jumped to an entirely different track of thought in her mind, and had no inclination to make him understand what the point of her previous statement had been.

"Marius told me about your... predicament," she said, and he was pretty sure her lip curled up in a sneer, quickly erased, on the final word. "He explained to me how I could help."

"And?"

"And I'd like to know: how much of this idea was yours?"

"Very little, to be perfectly frank," he replied.

She nodded. "I thought so," she said, sounding utterly unsurprised. "I am the last girl on earth a man like you would even consider. Which, ironically, given what Marius said, would seem to make me perfect for the job."

She had an odd way of speaking of it. He couldn't put his finger on what it was; perhaps it was just that she seemed to accept something so bizarre without question? What could life do to a person to make them view their own fate in this way?

"So it would seem," he agreed dryly.

"But I'm curious," she continued, "Do you even know what you're getting into with me?"

"As I have hardly spoken to you, I would think the answer to that would be obvious."

She smirked, but her eyes were faraway behind it. She sat down, and he followed suit. "I'm not like the young ladies of class you probably know," she said bluntly. "I was raised right, my _maman_ taught me how to be proper, more or less, but I'm not quiet and I'm not mild and I'm not... innocent."

Her meaning was plain: she was no virgin. To be perfectly honest, he had imagined as much. Girls like her did what they had to in order to survive. His utter lack of surprise must have been plain, because she said, "Ah, but you're clever, aren't you? I suppose you've guessed that, then. I'm surprised you're not more bothered by it. Isn't a woman's virtue supposed to be some sort of valuable treasure?"

He shrugged. "A man may spend his bachelorhood however he wishes. It is perhaps wrong of us to expect a different standard from women." It was something Jehan had said once during a bout of philosophizing, and while it had struck him strangely at the time, he had come to think there might be some truth to it. "Moreover, as this arrangement would really be more of a marriage of convenience for us both, I do not see how it matters much."

Éponine laughed darkly. "You really are an unusual boy, aren't you?"

"I do not think so," he responded, a bit irritated. "I am just caught in a very difficult predicament and this idea, mad as it is, may be my only way of escaping."

"So Marius said."

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. "I cannot believe I am going to say this, but it might even work," he continued. "Pontmercy seems to have hit on a solution. A precarious one, and to be perfectly honest it is not ideal, but..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Éponine's keen eyes suddenly held a very different look. "It was Marius's idea, then?"

"Not entirely, but he was the one to bring you into it," Enjolras said, watching her carefully. He knew she cared for Marius, and wondered how she would react to this piece of information. When she spoke, her expression was very guarded.

"Why me?"

"I think because he wanted to help you somehow," Enjolras replied.

Her eyes left his for the first time since they had begun speaking as she stared down at her bare feet for a moment. With her eyes directed elsewhere, he realized just how very unnerved he had been by her unequivocal gaze. For a few moments she was silent, presumably processing what he had said. He wondered what she was thinking about, for her face revealed nothing. At last, she looked up at him once more and he found her eyes looking as firmly into his own as before, and the discomfort that came with that returned.

"Alright," she said, in a voice dripping with bitterness. "I'll do it. I'll be the fox-hole you can bolt down to escape being snared."

He nodded. "Thank you," he said.

"Well, it's just like Marius said. It helps me, too," she responded with a shrug. "How do we go about this?"

"I'm really not sure." He thought for a moment, but honestly, he had no idea how to handle any of this. "Tell me, do you know where the Corinth bistro is?"

She nodded. "On the Rue de Chanvrerie, yes."

"Go there tomorrow at eight o'clock. I will meet you there with my friend Combeferre- you have met Combeferre, yes?"

"The polite one with the glasses."

"Yes, that's François," he said, resisting the temptation to grin at her description. "We will meet you at the Corinth and discuss how we proceed from here."

She nodded. "Alright."

Enjolras rose and touched her briefly on the shoulder. "I will see you tomorrow, Éponine."

He turned and walked toward the door, but before he could leave, she cried out, "Wait!" He looked back at her. She was on her feet, looking at him with a strange expression on her face. "I do not even know your Christian name."

The thought had not even occurred to him. "My name is Antoine," he told her.

She smiled. "Antoine... it suits you. Well, Antoine, it seems we are engaged in a manner of speaking."

"I suppose we are," he replied, and at last he left the room.

He did not relish the thought, but despite Éponine's bedraggled appearance, her strange manner, and the fact that he did not really want to be married at all, it was still better than the bride that would await him in Lyon. At least he would keep his freedom. And having conversed with her, he supposed she wasn't actually all that unpleasant to talk to. It was an unfortunate circumstance, but it might just turn out bearably after all.


	6. 5: Formulating a Strategy

**A/N-** Still not finding much on the subject of marriage laws and customs. I read a somewhat dry twelve-page essay on the relevance of the _Code Napoleon_ to modern civilization which was entirely unhelpful, and that was just the start of the research I've been conducting. Unfortunately, while I've turned up plenty of information on modern marriage laws in France, I still can't tell you more than the most basic details of those in 1830. Unless one of my friends has an unknown genius Google skill that I know not of and turns something up soon, it looks like I may just have to wing it on common sense, and a rather basic knowledge of the legal trends of the times, which makes me sad, because I very much like to preserve as much historical accuracy as is reasonable.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 5<em>  
><em>November 21st, 1830<em>

At a quarter to eight in the evening, Enjolras and Combeferre arrived at the Corinth and ascended to the second floor, which was particularly full even for that time of the evening. They took up a table by the window, and a rather heavy set young serving-girl with a bad complexion approached them. Enjolras ordered tersely for them both, and for Éponine who had not yet arrived. The girl gave them a nod in response and bustled away, at which point Combeferre saw fit to ask, "What exactly am I doing here, Antoine?"

"I understand all the legal aspects of this proceeding perfectly well," Enjolras replied, "But you... you know about how to handle women. I have never had any such skill."

"You might do better to ask Courfeyrac, in that case," Combeferre said with a smirk playing across his lips.

Enjolras fought not to roll his eyes. "His brand of advice is likely to be related to an entirely different sort of difficulty with women than the variety I am currently experiencing. I think I trust your judgment better."

Combeferre nodded once, sobering. "So, when you spoke with Éponine last night, what was your impression of her?"

Enjolras thought on it for a moment before saying deliberately, "She is strange. I suppose it's the product of her circumstances, but she's an unnerving creature. She has an odd way of looking at you, she never seems to glance away. It is as though she is trying to stare down an army." Combeferre's lips twitched in what might have been the hint of a smile, but he said nothing, and Enjolras continued, "She seems to flit through aimlessly through ideas, and her manner of speaking is blunt, as if she had never learned any proper feminine delicacy. Overall, she is a very bizarre creature, and not even pretty to make up for it."

When he finished, Combeferre really was grinning. "You already despise her, then? Very good, my friend, you're quite on your way to being a proper married man!" he teased.

"I do not," Enjolras said coolly, "despise Éponine. This is just an honest evaluation. And to it, I perhaps ought to add that she seems bright. I'm glad for your sake that you are managing to find mirth in this situation, but I fail to see any."

At that moment, a voice from their right cried, "But there is a great deal of mirth in it, _mon ami_!"

Combeferre and Enjolras looked up to see Joly and Laigle, who had been concealed two tables away, revealed by the movement of the party between them. The pair stood up and joined their comrades at the table by the window.

"What are you doing here?" Combeferre asked of them.

Laigle shrugged. "A mind may live on ideals, but a stomach needs something more substantial."

"More to the point, what are _you_ doing here?" Joly asked.

"We are here to meet Éponine and discuss arrangements," Enjolras replied.

Laigle smirked, and said in a sly voice, "Then Pontmercy's harebrained scheme isn't so mad after all?"

"No, apparently not," Enjolras said. "Though I'm beginning to wish it were."

Despite his dour expression, all three of his friends were grinning. Whether their amusement was at his predicament or at the displeased look on his seraphic features it would be difficult to guess. Joly clapped him jovially on the shoulder. "Ah, my good man, you shall be free yet!"

"Yes, he shall," Combeferre said. "But in the meantime, it might be best if the two of you left."

"Why?" Joly asked.

"Because we're expecting the young woman any minute now. No need to frighten her off with the pair of you cracking jokes all evening!"

Laigle snorted. "As if we could! By Marius's account, that girl is impossible to scare."

"Indeed," Joly concurred. "True to her namesake, perhaps?"

Laigle, who was well-read even on the most trivial of subjects, nodded vigorously. "Ironic, that. Perhaps, being revolutionary as you are, we should stop calling you Enjolras and start calling you Sabinus? Yes, you shall be Sabinus and she shall be your-"

"Éponine," Enjolras interrupted, rising to his feet.

The girl herself had just appeared on the stairs.

* * *

><p>Éponine, for her part, had spent the whole day in something of an internal uproar. She felt as if her limbs were caught in two great vices, one on each side, slowly pulling her apart in the most painful way. Her heart screamed for Marius, for that handsome young man not so much older than herself who had always been so awfully kind to her. Her head, on the other hand, told her in no uncertain terms that an offer of marriage from Antoine Enjolras was the best opportunity she would ever get.<p>

Beneath the shield composed of scars from every bitter word or harsh blow life (or more frequently, her father) had dealt her, Éponine was a romantic at heart. Perhaps it was the result of being named for such a romantic figure, or perhaps that was just who she was. It hardly mattered, as it was what it was. Even life on the street couldn't beat the dreams out of her. She wanted someone to love her, the way she was sure her parents must have loved each other once, before things went sour. She wanted someone to love her the way the dashing heroes of her mother's romance novels loved their heroines. She wanted that more than anything else, so much that it hurt. It was foolishness. Her father, her sister, the whole hateful world told her it was foolishness, but even as a child, Éponine had never paid much attention to what anyone else told her. She had no intention of starting now, especially not with the only thing that was keeping her going some days.

Marius was her white knight. He was wealthy (well, he wasn't really, but his grandfather was, even if they were on bad terms), he was so handsome, he was nice to her, he didn't seem to see that she was just a dirty gamine, or at the very least he did a good job of ignoring it. He respected her. If anyone would come and sweep her off her feet, it was sure to be him.

Except... he did not seem too inclined to do any such thing.

As she walked down the street, pulling her oversized coat closer about her, Éponine thought back to their conversation the night before.

_"But Monsieur Marius, to _marry_ him? A total stranger?" It was a disturbing prospect. Maybe, though, it would make him jealous. In that hope, she continued, choosing her words carefully: "Still, he's very handsome. Do you... do you think I should?"_

_He smiled widely. "I think it would be a wonderful opportunity for you, 'Ponine. Just think! You would be away from your father..."_

_He kept talking, but Éponine was not listening, thinking only of the all too obvious meaning behind his words. _'I don't love you, I never will, you're just a friend, please go marry somebody else...'_ Feeling as if she were standing outside herself, only watching, she felt herself say that she wanted to speak to Enjolras privately._

The pang in her heart was bitter. Why didn't Marius want her? True, she wasn't the prettiest, but they had been friends for ages! Couldn't he see past all that? Hadn't her loyalty over these past two years proved that she deserved him? Hadn't she done everything she was supposed to? And yet he still thought she should marry one of his closest friends. It wasn't fair!

_Life isn't fair_, the gutter sang to her, _life never gives you what you want and rarely what you need!_

So, despite her heart wrenching itself to pieces inside her, Éponine had come to realize what she had to do.

Marius could save her, but he didn't seem to want to. If she did as he asked and married Monsieur Enjolras, she could be saved that way, too. It was a different kind of salvation. She wouldn't be united with the one she was sure must be her other half, her soul wouldn't be completed at long last. But she would be off the street. Her father wouldn't be able to slap her, or drag her into his hateful schemes. She wouldn't be reduced to sleeping under bridges or in haylofts, and she wouldn't go hungry. She would be able to be a good girl, more or less, like her mother had raised her to be. Almost respectable, maybe.

Even if the streets couldn't kill her dreams, they had taught her that you never passed up a chance on a meal. Marrying this boy- this admittedly very handsome boy- was a lifetime of meals.

After all, she could still have Marius the way she had always had him- inside her head. There would never be any need for Enjolras to know anything about her secret fantasies.

This conclusion reached, she made her way quickly down to the Rue de Chanvrerie. As she walked, she ran her fingers nervously through her hair, trying to straighten it out as much as possible. Éponine had done her best over the years to keep up her appearance as much as she could, but it hadn't helped much. All she could do was pull some of the snarls free and hope for the best.

In her head, she tried to dredge up the manners her mother had tried to teach her and her sister all those years ago, when they still lived in Montfermeil. Now that she had reached her decision, she suddenly felt apprehensive about it. Antoine Enjolras was wealthy and respectable. To be his wife, she would have to try and be proper. Well, she could manage that, couldn't she? She had been taught well once upon a time, and if nothing else, she was a quick study.

Upon reaching the Corinth, Éponine paused for a moment to gather her nerve, then marched inside as if she belonged there and headed straight upstairs to the main dining room.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Antoine," Éponine said, and the faintest flush across her cheeks displayed the shyness she probably thought well-concealed.<p>

"Already she is calling you by your Christian name?" Combeferre asked in an amused whisper behind him.

Enjolras stepped on his foot.

When Éponine approached the table, Enjolras held out a chair for her. She seemed more than a little surprised by this, and once again he felt a stab of pity for this girl who had not known respectable society for God only knew how many years.

"Éponine, I think you have seen my friends before? Alexandre Joly, François Combeferre, and-"

"You're the one they call Bossuet, aren't you?" Éponine interrupted, looking to the bald-headed young man.

Laigle grinned. "Yes, that would be me," he replied. "Laigle de Meaux, shortly known as Bossuet as part of a rather old joke at my expense that one would think my friends had forgotten by now!" He shot an amused look at Joly, who was more or less responsible for the group's long memory.

Éponine laughed, a free and unrestrained sound.

Enjolras was suddenly glad that Laigle was present. His perpetual cheer made it impossible not to feel at ease, something that might not have been possible in this awkward situation without him.

"Well," Enjolras said, eager to get into the meat of the discussion over with. "I suppose we had better get this matter sorted, hadn't we?"

"Yes, I suppose we had," Éponine agreed.

"I have thought about it, and I think I have contrived the best way to go about this," he said.

"Well, don't leave us in suspense!" Joly cried.

"It is fairly straightforward. Éponine and I will be married as quickly as I can have the papers drawn up. I have some connections, and it shouldn't take more than a week or two at most. At that time I will write back to my father explaining that the reason I resisted his attempts to forge a bond between myself and Mlle. Guillory was because I was already wed, in secret. I did not initially wish to tell him this because I feared he would react badly to the news, but eventually found I had no other choice."

Combeferre looked approving, but cautioned, "Knowing your father, that will not be enough to satisfy him. Even when he is pleased with you, he wants to know every detail. He most assuredly will not be pleased with this turn of events. What sort of story will you concoct to explain such an elopement?"

"I thought," Enjolras said, "that Éponine and I would work out something plausible together."

At this point, Éponine interjected, "And what about the papers? Supposing he wants to see the proof? The dates won't match the story."

Enjolras was impressed. He had not even thought of that.

"I know some people... well, my father knows them, but I know where to find them, anyway... who can forge reproductions of that sort of thing," she suggested.

Enjolras shook his head vigorously. He had absolutely no desire to get involved with the kind of people she was implying. He was a friend of the abased, not of the criminal element. "No, I don't think so," he said, thinking desperately of an alternative. Suddenly, something Courfeyrac had mentioned a few days previously recalled itself to his mind. "I have an idea about that. That new man who's been coming to the meetings these past few weeks, that Feuilly... Courfeyrac says he's a fan-painter, yes?"

Joly nodded. "Quite talented, too," he said.

"Do you think he might be able to extend that talent as far as smudging out the ink on legal documents enough to fill in a new date?"

"The only way to find out would be to ask him," Combeferre said.

"And failing that, I still know people," Éponine added.

At this point, the pimply-faced servant at last delivered their food, and all conversation ceased for several minutes as they all tucked into the meal, none with as much vigor as Éponine, who declared that she had not eaten so well in years. Considering the mediocre quality of the offerings at the Corinth, Enjolras once again found himself confronted with the fact of her wretched existence. The abject poverty at the lowest level of society was something he had found facing him at every turn since coming to Paris, and always it had disturbed and moved him, but seeing it from afar and vowing to do something about it and coming face-to-face with it in someone he was about to be so intimately connected to were two entirely different feelings.

When the meal was concluded and the bill paid, Enjolras declared that it was late, and he had studying to do. He said his goodbyes, but before he could leave, Joly exclaimed, "My friend, you cannot really mean to leave your fiancée to fend for herself on the streets!"

To be perfectly honest, it had been bothering at him all evening, but he couldn't find a way to rectify the situation without breaching propriety. Admittedly, considering the absurdity of their situation, it was a little late for such concerns, but he could preserve some semblance of normalcy, couldn't he? Therefore, he had hoped to simply leave it alone for now. But that word- fiancée- put things in a totally different perspective. He hadn't actually thought of her as such until Joly said it, but now that he had, it hit him very hard that this was really happening, and he realized that it was absolutely imperative to do something about her situation immediately.

"It would be inappropriate," he said stiffly, "to bring her home with me."

Éponine shook her head. "There's no need to worry about me! I've lasted just fine on my own this long. I'll certainly last a little longer."

"Nonsense!" said Combeferre. "It wouldn't be right to leave you alone like this! Still, it's a bit of a dilemma. What can we possibly do with you until the wedding?"

It was at this moment that Joly and Laigle glanced at each other, questioning expressions on their faces. When their eyes met, their looks broke into identical grins.

In the same breath, they said, "Musichetta."

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** Fun fact about me: I put very little effort into my fanfic. Ever. I see little point in taking it that seriously. Everything I write is pretty much absolute first draft, no editing except to skim for typos. Fact is, I'd rather divert my writing energies into my own creations. So the quality of my fanfic is generally low. But this chapter? It kicked my freaking butt, and I have absolutely no idea why. I had to work _so hard_ to get the words down on "paper!"

Reward my struggle with a review? *Bambi eyes*


	7. 6: Musichetta

**A/N-** The whole time I was writing about Musichetta, I had the song 'Popular' from Wicked playing over and over in the back of my head. I can't help it. Somehow 'Chetta and Galinda have become inextricably linked in my mind. I think I am mentally disturbed.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 6<em>  
><em>November 22nd, 1830<em>

Musichetta, as it turned out, was Joly's mistress. Though, truth be told, judging by the amount of flirting that had gone on between her and Laigle, Éponine had to wonder whether she wasn't a little bit shared. The pair of best friends had brought her to Musichetta's doorstep despite the late hour, and pleaded with the young lady to open her home just for a few weeks.

The first thought that entered Éponine's head upon seeing Musichetta was to marvel at her beauty. She was utterly petite, with perfect porcelain features and thick, honey-colored hair. What was really striking, though, were her eyes which were a deep shade of violet and framed by long golden lashes. She was dressed in a gown of fine cut and plain fabric. The only thing that distinguished her as a grisette rather than some bourgeois doll were her hands, which were red and dry about the knuckles.

"Alexandre, what on earth are you playing at?" she demanded. "I can't take her in! There's hardly room here for me!"

Éponine thought about protesting that she didn't take up much room, but kept silent.

"Please, 'Chetta, it would just be for a few weeks, just long enough to get a few things in order..." Joly pleaded.

"Who is she, anyway?"

"My name is Éponine."

"She's Enjolras's fiancée," Laigle added. "You remember I was telling you about that whole funny situation?"

At this, Musichetta's pursed lips relaxed into a reluctant grin. "Of course! Oh, what an amusing dilemma." Éponine suspected that Antoine would be furious to know that a grisette he had never spoken to was entertained by his private affairs. She pictured his blue eyes narrowing in annoyance, and smiled to herself at the picture it presented.

"Please?" Joly begged. "She has nowhere else to go."

Musichetta sighed. "I wish I could help, but I can't!"

"Come on, 'Chetta," Joly pleaded. "It would only be until the wedding." Then his eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "Just think! A poor girl like Éponine isn't _really_ suited to Enjolras. She needs someone to tidy her up in preparation. It would be a project. Wouldn't that be fun for you?"

Musichetta's smile widened. "I hate that you know me so well. Alright, I suppose you leave me no choice." Though her words were those of grudging concession, her sparkling eyes indicated otherwise. Clearly he had hit on the one inducement guaranteed to make her accept Éponine into her home.

Once the two men left, Musichetta took to studying Éponine, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her lips thoughtfully with a fingertip. "Well, you're not very pretty, are you?" she said at last, and it wasn't really a question. "Still, I think we'll be able to make something of you. You've rather fine eyes, at least."

"Nothing to yours," Éponine said enviously.

Musichetta laughed gaily. "My eyes are rather lovely, aren't they?" she said. Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, "To tell you the truth, that's how I snared Alexandre. He's quite convinced it was his idea first- men always do- but I saw him long before he saw me. I caught sight of him one night across the floor in a dance hall, and he seemed so sweet and so handsome... well, I wasn't going to let him slip away, now was I? It's easy, Éponine, when you have beautiful eyes, to make a man yours."

So saying, she took Éponine by the arm and guided her into the little parlor, where she pulled the pair of them down onto the little settee. "Oh, I know Alexandre and I aren't forever, of course. I can hope that I'll be the lucky girl he marries, but I know it's not likely. For now, though... for now he is mine and only mine and that is perfectly good enough. You, though- Oh! You _are_ the lucky thing, aren't you?" she exclaimed. "I'm very sure every grisette in Paris has tried her luck with Antoine Enjolras- and more than a few of the bourgeois ladies, too- and not one has received anything better than that haughty stare of his. He's a man of marble, he really is. How someone so handsome can be so cold-blooded is beyond me! But one little letter from his father and suddenly he's scrambling to find a substitute wife! How on earth is it that you, of all people, came to be the one he's settled on?"

Éponine felt she probably ought to be offended, but Musichetta was as gay and utterly guileless as her lover, and she was finding it difficult to be annoyed with her, no matter how frank she was. Besides, what she said was true: Éponine was probably the last girl in Paris that a man like Antoine ought to ally himself with.

"Probably," Éponine replied, "because I am the only single woman in Paris with no designs on him."

Musichetta's stunning eyes widened. "None at all? Oh, I can't believe that! Every woman who ever sees him desires him."

"Well, not me," she said firmly. Then, after a slight hesitation, she continued, "Though I suppose he is _very_ handsome."

"That he is!" Musichetta giggled. "Come now, you're lucky, admit it!"

"I suppose I am," Éponine confessed. "But somehow I don't think he is, being stuck with a girl like me."

"This is Paris!" Musichetta replied. "Stranger things have happened. Besides, I have my instructions. When I'm finished with you, you'll be a proper beauty! Now, we had better get some sleep, because I have all kinds of ideas for tomorrow."

* * *

><p>As it transpired, those ideas consisted of Éponine being quite thoroughly scrubbed. Musichetta gaily declared that she had no intention of working that day, as "fixing Éponine up" was more pressing business. Officially her trade was that of the laundress, hence her rough hands, but since becoming involved with Joly her actual participation in that line of work had become sporadic. Her customers, she said, could wait another day. Instead, she put the large washtub situated in the otherwise empty back room of her flat to a rather different use.<p>

Éponine couldn't recall being so clean in years. Running outside in the rain in an attempt to wash away the grime was really not the same thing. Once she was washed to Musichetta's satisfaction, the older girl presented her with one of her own dresses, a plain and serviceable gown in blue, which Éponine readily changed into. She was fiercely glad to be free of her own clothes, which she had worn constantly for maybe two years straight, and which most certainly did not fit anymore.

Musichetta had a mirror in her bedroom, which Éponine ran to the moment she was dressed, eager to see how she looked.

She was disappointed. Though she was clean, her skin was still tanned from the sun and sallow from malnourishment. The color of her hair was no longer concealed beneath a heavy later of dirt and grease, but she hadn't taken the time to comb it yet, and it was still a mass of tangles. Although she looked better in Musichetta's dress than she had in her own clothing, the fact was, they were not the same size. Musichetta was a good six inches shorter than she was, and where malnourishment had left Éponine with a body like a young boy's, Musichetta had a full womanly figure, with curves in all the right places. As a result, the gown was too short in some places and far too loose in others, and left her looking stringy and awkward in it. It might be considered improvement, but just barely.

"No need to worry," Musichetta exclaimed, not discouraged at all but noting Éponine's disappointment. "This is only temporary. We'll have you dressed properly in no time. But we certainly couldn't have you running around in those rags any longer!"

Éponine sighed. "It is silly. I have been ugly for years. I just thought..."

"You thought one bath and a clean dress would make all the difference?" Musichetta asked, amused. "Rome was not built in a day, _mon ami_. Never fear, we shall certainly make you fit to stand up next to your future husband, but you didn't think it could happen overnight, surely!"

She had, and now felt foolish.

Musichetta pulled a little rush-seated chair up in front of the mirror, and with a push on the shoulders, encouraged Éponine to sit. "Now," she said, "On to the next step! We have simply got to do something about this hair of yours." She ran her fingers through the long tangled locks in question. "I must say, I envy you this color!" Éponine's hair was beginning to dry, revealing it to be a light, vivid red, just like her mother's. She felt that Musichetta's blonde locks were prettier, but there was something striking about the strawberry color all the same.

The older girl picked up a comb and began working through the knots in Éponine's hair. She seemed to try to be gentle, but the tangles were too thick and too long set in to avoid some rather strenuous tugging.

"Has anyone ever taught you to pin your hair up properly?" Musichetta asked as she worked through one particularly tenacious knot.

Éponine shook her head (which did not help the process in the slightest).

"Well, it's time for your first lesson."

* * *

><p>Enjolras returned to his apartment in the afternoon. He only meant to leave his schoolbooks inside before going immediately to the cafe to meet with Bahorel and Courfeyrac. He had not expected to find a beautiful girl waiting outside his door.<p>

"Monsieur Enjolras," she said, looking up at him through her golden lashes. "My name is Musichetta. I am here on your fiancée's behalf."

He vaguely recognized the girl who had once greeted Joly (rather exuberantly, if he recalled) outside the Cafe Musain, and nodded. "What is your business?" he asked, trying not to cringe at her reference to Éponine as his fiancée.

"I want to take Éponine to a seamstress. She is going to need some proper clothing, obviously. The difficulty is, I have no money to spare, and of course she has none at all." Musichetta gave him a meaningful look with those striking violet eyes.

Enjolras nodded. "Of course," he said tiredly. Dear Lord, if these women who were apparently invading his life made a habit out of bothering him about this sort of trivial thing, he would go mad within a month! He filled her hand with coins, and her eyes widened at the amount. "Here, buy whatever you think she needs. If you should need more-"

"No, this will be plenty!" she said hurriedly. "Good day to you, Monsieur!"

She curtsied and hurried away. He watched until she reached the bottom of the stairs, then shook his head and unlocked the door of his flat. "Women..." he muttered irritably.

He deposited his books, stopped to retrieve a collection of Locke's writings from his bookshelf, and hurried to the cafe as originally planned. Once there, he discovered that his haste had been entirely unnecessary because Bahorel was plainly late (as usual). However, he spotted Feuilly chatting with some other workingmen in the corner and approached him, thinking it might be a good opportunity to ask if he would be able to help with the problem Éponine had pointed out the night before.

"Feuilly, might I have a word with you?" he asked.

The young man nodded and rose to his feet, following Enjolras to a table out of earshot of the other men.

Enjolras said, "You were present the other night when a great deal of discussion went towards finding a solution towards my difficulty with my parents."

"If you're worried I'll tell anyone who wasn't there-" Feuilly began, but Enjolras shook his head.

"No, that's not it. I've put Pontmercy's idea into action, but for this to be a suitable solution, we may have to fix the dates on some of the paperwork."

Feuilly looked at him intently. "What has that got to do with me?"

"I know you paint fans for a living," Enjolras said. "You have an advanced understanding of ink and paper. Is it possible you would be able to alter the documents?"

He thought long and hard for a minute. "I'm not entirely sure I like this," he said slowly, "But depending on the sort of ink used, I think it would certainly be within my skill. Yes, I will assist you. Never let it be said that Patrice Feuilly will not help a friend in need!"

"You consider me a friend?" Enjolras asked, surprised. He had spoken very little to the other man.

Feuilly nodded. "All mankind are brothers," he said, "And as for us? We think and feel alike, that all men have the right to be equals in that brotherhood. That common thought alone makes a basis for friendship, does it not?"

Enjolras smiled. It was the sort of thing he himself might say. "I must agree," he said. He extended his hand, which Feuilly took. They shook hands, and Enjolras said, "Thank you for your assistance, my friend."

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** I fully hate this chapter. Musichetta's a dear, but I hate this chapter. Still, I know from experience that fiddling is only going to make me frustrated and help nothing.


	8. 7: The Cesspool of Society

**A/N-** This chapter as originally conceived almost didn't happen. Or rather, it very nearly happened several chapters later in this fic. But ultimately I realized it simply had to be placed here or all my efforts to make this insane plot semi-realistic would have been wasted.

And yes, the 30th of November, 1830 actually was a Sunday. _I check my facts!_ (#exceptwhenidont)

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 7<em>  
><em>November 29th, 1830<em>

Over the next few days, Enjolras managed to put Éponine and his impending marriage from his mind. He had filed all the necessary paperwork, and he saw no purpose fretting over something he could not control. It was far better to put his mind toward things that had genuine value while he was waiting for everything to be pushed through, he reasoned. Joly assured him that his mistress and Éponine were getting along splendidly, and that was the end of Enjolras's worry on the subject. Instead, he redoubled his attention to his schoolwork and to his evening efforts in the cafe.

"They revere you, you know," Combeferre said to him quietly one evening after the usual talkative chaos of a full meeting had died down.

"Who?" Enjolras asked absentmindedly. He was focused on the heavy tome on the table in front of him.

"The men," Combeferre replied. "It's not just our friends, though God knows they look up to you as well. It's everyone. Every single man who comes to these meetings holds you in rather incredible high esteem. Young men, old men, students, working men... everyone. I never really noticed it until now. Did you see the way their eyes shone when you spoke tonight?"

Enjolras shook his head. "I was rather busy speaking," he replied.

Combeferre laughed half-heartedly. "You've always had a certain charisma, Antoine. I think it was what first drew me to you when we were young. I had brilliant ideas, and you made me feel as if I could actually bring them to fruition, even in that youthful way that children dream their unlikely dreams. This, though... this is something different."

"How do you mean? I'm the same as I ever was."

"No, you're really not," Combeferre replied. "It's as though you've been awakened. Ever since we came to Paris... was that really only three years ago? The time has passed so quickly! Well, I've noticed it more and more. You spent our childhood inspiring others. Now it seems you've inspired yourself."

Enjolras finally looked up from his book. "Is that any surprise, François? I have finally found something that is really worth doing. How can I fail to follow the call?"

"No better than anyone who hears you speak can fail to follow _you_," Combeferre countered. "I doubt you even understand why it is that you lead the Amis, but it is plain to me. Men see your inspiration, they see you taking flight in the service of Liberty, and even the faint-hearted are willing to follow you anywhere. You hold a great deal of power over men's hearts and minds, _mon ami_."

"It is not me that they are following. It is the rising star of freedom that calls them on. I am only a man. Liberty herself is their guide," Enjolras insisted.

Combeferre sighed, a little smile on his lips. "Say what you will about the Cause, I still maintain that your endless facility with words certainly helps."

It was at this moment that Marius entered the back room and approached them.

"Marius!" Enjolras said. "I thought you had left already."

"I've been thinking," Marius said. "What are we going to do about Old Thenardier?"

Enjolras gave him a blank look.

"Éponine's father?" Marius prompted.

Understanding struck. The family name had not even registered at first because Enjolras was too used to thinking of Éponine as being without family. Her surname hardly mattered.

"I assume, given that you are the one to breach the subject, that you have an idea?" Enjolras said.

Marius nodded. "Yes, actually, I think I do."

Combeferre said, "Let's hear it then.

The younger man sat down opposite them. "Éponine told me a few weeks ago that her family was still living in the old Gorbeau tenement. Nasty place, but they can usually afford the rent, so they're unlikely to leave. I think we ought to go there and have a talk with Thenardier. The fact of the matter is, he isn't likely to notice if his daughter ever comes home or not, but on the odd chance that he _does_, it would be better to have dealt with him before rather than later."

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully. The idea of speaking to Thenardier was repugnant, given what little Éponine had let slip about her father over the course of their acquaintance, but Marius was right. The man could cause problems. By all reports, he was a money-grubbing miscreant with an ability to wring as much cash out of a situation as possible. He would be sure to raise a commotion if he were not appeased before he had the opportunity.

Besides, there was another incentive to approach Éponine's father. Enjolras felt compelled to ask the man's permission to wed his daughter. Even if he was as much of an oaf as he was rumored to be, even if he flat-out refused, Enjolras still felt it was the right thing to do. Everything else about the arrangement between himself and Éponine was so absurd, that adhering to the few things he was still capable of keeping within normalcy was paramount for his sanity.

"And assuming he's troublesome?" Enjolras asked.

Marius grinned, a surprisingly wicked look on his usually innocent face. "I saw and overheard a great many of his doings while I was living next door. While the things I heard certainly kept me awake at night fearing for my life, they may also prove quite useful should we need to use... _stronger_ methods to coerce him into cooperating. Moreover, I can rattle off a handy list of several of his more frequent and useful aliases... names he certainly wouldn't want whispered in the ear of the prefect of police."

Enjolras looked at his young friend with new eyes. "I'm impressed, Pontmercy," he said. "You've the mind of a general underneath those schoolboy's features, haven't you?"

"More likely the mind of a rogue," Combeferre said with a low chuckle.

* * *

><p><em>November 30, 1830 <em>

After mass the next morning, Enjolras joined Marius outside Bahorel's flat, where they waited patiently for the older man to appear. Bahorel had overheard the rest of their discussion about how to handle Thenardier and it seemed his own unique blend of fraternal loyalty and inclination for altercations would not allow him to miss this encounter.

Once again, he afforded them several minutes of impatient loitering, but at last, he emerged from the building, sporting a questionable mustard-yellow waistcoat and a broad grin. "Ah, _mes amis_!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "It is a lovely morning, is it not?"

"And it will be all the more lovely once this is dealt with," Enjolras replied.

Bahorel laughed outright, but for once chose not to respond with a witty remark, settling instead for a pugnacious little grin that remained on his face for several minutes. The trio hailed a fiacre, and within minutes they were off in the direction of Boulevard de l'Hopital.

As they pulled up outside No. 50, Marius wrinkled his nose. "Dear Lord," he murmured. "I had forgotten how perfectly horrid this place is."

Enjolras could only stare. _This_ was where Éponine had lived? No wonder the poor girl looked as she did; in fact, it was surprising she didn't look worse! The place was a wreck. One could tell from the shape of the building that it had once been rather fine, but that had been very long ago, and little remained of whatever grandeur it had once claimed. Instead one could discern soot-stained eaves, rotting doorposts, and that indefinable air of ill-kept lodgings which hovers just below the edge of consciousness and warns away respectable people.

Marius, still with a look of disgust on his face, led the way into the run-down tenement. He called out what Enjolras presumed to be the name of the landlady, but received no reply. "Must be out," he murmured. "Well, alright then. Follow me. The Thenardiers live in one of the garrets upstairs."

They ascended. Marius indicated the door.

Enjolras knocked.

For quite some time there was silence, and he began to wonder if there was no one home. "Maybe-" he began, but at that moment, the door swung open on rusty hinges.

Revealed behind the door was a woman who could only be Éponine's mother. Enjolras stared at her with a shock of recognition. Looking at the two women, one would not immediately have seen any resemblance between them, as the woman before him was fat, toad-like, and altogether foul. Still, he picked out details of Éponine's appearance in this other woman- the little button nose, the height so unusual in a woman and, most strikingly, that shock of red hair the daughter had inherited. One thing, though, was notably different: the eyes. Éponine's eyes, he recalled, were chocolate brown and glittered with repressed intelligence. This behemoth's eyes were piggy and green and blank, windows onto a mindless mire of a soul.

If Enjolras was struck dumb with disgust, Marius at least seemed used to this sight. "Madame Thenardier," he said, in a tone that almost sounded respectful. "Is your husband in, perchance?"

"Yeah," she muttered. "He's here." She jerked her head to the side, inviting them in crudely.

The three Amis trooped over the threshold into a one-room apartment that gave Enjolras a new definition for 'squalor.' In one corner of the room sat a blank-faced girl, perhaps fourteen years of age, who had inherited her mother's green eyes and round face. She looked up at them, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. Her eyes landed and fixed on Enjolras. _This must be the sister Éponine mentioned_, he supposed.

Quickly, though, his attention was diverted by the little man who stood up from his rush chair by the fireplace, where he had been scribbling something on a piece of paper. "What can I do for you today, messieurs?" he asked in a voice that was a perfect match for his greasy hair. Enjolras saw immediately where Éponine had inherited her slender build and calculating dark eyes. This man looked every inch the sneaky, brilliant rat he was reputed to be.

"Clearly she has inherited what few good features her family can afford her," Bahorel muttered.

Resisting the temptation to elbow him in the side to shut him up, Enjolras said, "I am here, Monsieur Thenardier, because of your daughter, Éponine," he said.

"And who, may I ask, are you, Monsieur?" Thenardier asked. "You, I know quite well, Monsieur Marius. But who are your friends?"

"My name is Antoine Enjolras," he replied brusquely. "And I have come to ask your daughter's hand in marriage."

The girl in the corner made a sound like she was choking.

A swift look from her father silenced her. "How's that?" he asked, squinting at Enjolras. "My girl? My Éponine? A gentleman like you? Surely you jest, Monsieur!"

Enjolras shook his head. "I assure you, I am not jesting."

Thenardier stared. The cogs turning in his mind were plain for all to see. He was obviously trying to work some sort of benefit for himself out of this. Or perhaps that was Enjolras's prejudice against him coloring his perceptions. He did not think so, however.

"If you're expecting some sort of dowry on her," Thenardier said, "you are in for an unpleasant surprise, Monsieur... Enjolras, did you say? You see, my family-"

"He isn't blind, Thenardier!" Bahorel interrupted. "We can see you're poor as dirt!"

"Christophe!" Enjolras cautioned sharply, and the older man fell silent.

Thenardier had a thoroughly sour expression on his face. "Still, I suppose he is right. We have fallen on tragic times, Monsieur Enjolras. I was a respectable man, once! I owned a successful business, I was well-known in the community! I spoiled my daughters, I was a generous man! Perhaps too generous, for that was my ruin, you see! Even now, all I have goes to the care of my two precious children. They are gems, you know..."

The girl in the corner made another soft noise. It might have been suppressed laughter.

"Monsieur Enjolras, you are plainly a man of wealth and benevolence," Thenardier continued, affecting a pathetic sniffle for greater dramatic effect. "You have taken an interest in my Éponine, you say? You wish to marry her?"

Enjolras nodded rigidly.

"Then perhaps..." Thenardier hesitated, acting every inch the reluctant but desperate beggar. "Perhaps that could be arranged, if you would but extend your generosity upon the rest of her most unfortunate family?"

"Why you rotten swindling little-" Bahorel burst out, but Enjolras's hand on his arm silenced him once again.

"M. Thenardier," Enjolras said coolly, "I will marry your daughter. You will grant your permission for this. You will not interfere with her life. You will not have any contact with her unless she wishes it. You will not try to extort any money from myself or her."

Thenardier was a clever beggar and a persistent one, but even he was apparently not foolish enough to try and continue the game when he knew he had been rumbled. "And what," he said with a raspy laugh, "makes you think I would agree to that?"

It was at this moment that Marius spoke up. His pallid complexion plainly told that he was somewhat afraid of Thenardier, but his demeanor was calm and his voice steady. "Because, Monsieur Thenardier- or perhaps I should call you Monsieur Jondrette?"

"I don't-" Thenardier began, probably attempting to deny the false name.

Marius, however, spoke right over him. "Or perhaps it is Monsieur Fabantou? Or are you Mother Ballizard today?"

With each false identity falling from Marius's lips, Thenardier's color turned a further shade of nasty grey, but the young man still wasn't done.

"It would be a shame if the prefect of police were to learn about all those names, wouldn't it?" Marius said casually. "It would be an even _greater_ shame if he were to hear about the truth behind a certain series of spectacular and mysterious heists pulled in the Marais over the course of last spring. I can't imagine what _monsieur le prefet_ would say if he were to hear the shocking details of the escape of two notorious criminals known as Brujon and Gueulemer from La Force back in January!" Then, with a devious little smile, Marius said smugly, "Do you need to hear more? Or, more to the point, do the police need to hear more?"

"You wouldn't dare, you little rat!" Thenardier spat, lunging at Marius.

Bahorel, who stood a solid foot taller than the pitiful criminal, stepped into his path and easily restrained him. Mme. Thenardier let out a cry of outrage, but at a signal from her resigned husband, she quieted again.

"Release me, you oaf!" Thenardier grumbled at Bahorel.

At a nod from Enjolras, Bahorel did so.

Thenardier stepped back, glaring distrustfully at the student and rubbing his wrists where Bahorel had grabbed him. "Fine," he muttered. "Go ahead."

"I have your permission to marry Éponine, then?" Enjolras clarified.

The man let out a bitter laugh. "Do whatever you want. Have the little whore, what do I care? If her friends are going to cause this much trouble, I'll have nothing more to do with her! The slut was hardly any use to me anyway. Thought too much for her own good. I should warn you though, I have it on good authority that she's awful in the sack!"

The only person in the room who was more horrified than Enjolras by Thenardier's crudeness seemed to be his wife. She did not say anything in defense of her daughter, but if her expression was anything to go by, she was as outraged by the insult to her offspring as Enjolras was shocked by Thenardier's sickening disregard for his child.

Enjolras did not know how to respond to the aging thief's outburst of vitriol. He settled for saying coldly, "I bid you good day, Monsieur. I pray that we never have the misfortune to meet again."

He turned on his heel and marched out of the squalid little garret, feeling a burst of fury in his veins so overwhelming that he hardly noticed Marius and Bahorel following.

He spent his time preparing in secret for the fight that would lift up abased people like the Thenardiers. All his efforts went toward raising such people to the light. Yet part of him wanted to bury Monsieur Thenardier and his ogress of a wife in darkness, where they would never stain the beauty of the Republic. It was wrong, he knew, to feel such an overwhelming desire to suppress any man, but he couldn't help being angry. Enjolras had had his fair share of disagreements with his own father over the years, but he never dreamed that members of the same family could carry such venom against each other. Such cruelty was almost unfathomable to him. He was sickened by these people, who did no imaginable kindness to anyone around them, who neglected their children, and who as far as he could tell only served to drain society rather than uplift it.

He felt more determined than ever that the future must come, and soon, for the sake of all those like Éponine: the tragic wilted flowers of the underworld who might yet bloom if lifted out of the darkness of their wretched lives into the full light of education and equality.

If there had been any doubt in him until now that marrying Éponine was the right thing for both of them, it was gone now. Totally disregarding the benefit to himself, it was terribly important that she never have to return to this kind of life. He would do his best to shelter her from any further degradations, and she would be his reminder that his Patria still needed him, until the day all men were free to live in the light.

So absorbed was he with these churning thoughts that he was already back in the fiacre with Bahorel before he noticed that Marius was no longer with them.

"Where is Pontmercy?" he asked, baffled.

Bahorel jerked his head back toward the tenement.

Enjolras looked in the direction indicated, and saw that Marius had stopped just in the doorway. The young girl, Éponine's sister, had run out after them, and had tugged on Marius's sleeve to get him to listen to her. She said something in a low, rough voice that Enjolras could not make out. Marius nodded in response, and pulled away from the girl.

He joined the other two in the fiacre, and the driver set off back towards the Quartier Latin.

"What did she want?" Bahorel asked.

Marius smiled sadly, an expression of regret and pity on his face. "She wanted me to carry a message to Éponine for her, that she not forget her sister."

Enjolras leaned his head back against the seat of the carriage and repressed a heavy sigh.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** Is it just me, or is it taking the combined efforts of basically all of the Amis to get Antoine married off...?


	9. 8: Torn In Two

**A/N-** Once again, this chapter almost didn't happen. And unlike last chapter, this one wasn't even planned. But I think it was a very necessary chapter, and I think you'll agree with me once you've read it. Also, my inner seamstress went a bit nuts researching preferred fabrics and fashions of the day, and let me tell you they were even more psychotic about all that nonsense then than we are today!

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><p><em>Chapter 8<br>December 1, 1830 _

Éponine gazed at herself once more in Musichetta's mirror, and this time she felt she had something to smile about. She still wasn't what you would call beautiful- in fact, she didn't hold out much hope for ever being more than plain- but it made such a difference to have a gown that fit her properly!

Musichetta had dragged her out to a seamstress, who had looked horrified at the sight of Éponine in the older girl's ill-fitting garments. The lighthearted blonde had explained cheerfully that her "dear cousin Éponine" had just gone through a tremendous growth spurt and said with a delightfully wicked smile that not a single one of her old gowns fit anymore.

"Which, of course, is a tragedy," Musichetta had explained, "Because she's due to be married in a week!"

This was manifestly untrue, but (combined with the money Musichetta flashed about) it certainly persuaded the seamstress to promise the fastest work of her life.

Éponine came to the conclusion that, despite appearances, there wasn't really all that much difference between herself and the people in whose company she had suddenly found herself. The Amis and Musichetta both seemed to be perfectly willing to do every bit as much lying as her family ever had. The only difference, as far as she could tell, was motivation.

So now Éponine was the owner of not one but three dresses all her own. There were to be two simple moire gowns for daily wear, one in blue and one in a pale lavender. The latter was the only one the seamstress had yet finished, and therefore the one she was wearing. Musichetta had wanted green to show off Éponine's copper hair, but no fabric in a suitable color could be found in time so she had forgone emerald in favor of a dark peacock blue for the second dress. The third was to be for special occasions, and Éponine had seen a picture of the pattern the seamstress would use, and she had a hard time believing it would really be hers, a fantastic creation of fine silk and lace in a color Musichetta had described as "lemon chiffon," whatever that meant. The two everyday gowns were finer by far than anything she had worn since she was only a child, and the idea of anything finer completely overwhelmed her.

"It hardly even looks like me," she said softly.

Musichetta peered over her shoulder. "You look lovely."

"Exactly. I'm afraid I'll get it dirty," Éponine said. Forget dirty, she was afraid to _breathe_ around this dress! "I'm not meant for fine things like this!"

The blonde giggled. "Oh 'Ponine, you worry too much! You're about to become the wife of a _very_ wealthy man. Enjoy it. You're not a gamine anymore, you'll never be a grisette. You're about to become bourgeois at the very least, if your fiancé can afford to throw around that sort of money without even thinking about it!"

Éponine nodded, biting her lip. How on earth was she to do this? Not even three weeks ago, she was sleeping in haylofts and under bridges and begging to earn her dinner. Suddenly she was dressing in silk and expected to fool Antoine's family into believing she was a former working-class girl who had caught their haughty son's eye? She was a consummate liar, but she wasn't sure she was that good of an actress.

"Tell you what," Musichetta said excitedly, "Now that the dress has come in, we shall have to go and find you some other things as well! I have some left over from what Enjolras gave me for you. We can buy you a coat and some pretty hats and pins and things- oh, what fun that will be!"

Éponine bobbed her head mutely once more. What could she do but just go along with this? Besides, even as unsettling as it was, way down deep it did feel good to be well-dressed and looked after.

Musichetta excused herself for a few moments to run a few blocks down to the bakery to buy a few loaves to complete the evening meal she was planning. Éponine continued to stare at herself in the mirror. She touched her hair, which she had done for herself for the first time in her life. It did not look as tidy as when Musichetta had shown her how, but she was sure she would learn to do it properly with practice.

A knock sounded on the door of the little flat. Éponine ran to respond, thinking it to be Musichetta having forgotten her key, but when she opened the door, she found Marius looking back at her instead. She felt her heart speed up at the sight of him and she was sure her cheeks flushed a little.

"Monsieur Marius!" she exclaimed happily. "Come in!"

"Éponine," he said with a smile. "You look lovely."

_He thinks I look lovely! Lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely..._

"Thank you," she said, and she knew she was blushing now. She pulled him into the apartment eagerly and guided him into Musichetta's tiny parlor. "Come in, Marius, and sit with me awhile! What on earth are you doing here?"

Marius said, "We went to see your father yesterday."

Éponine's eyes widened. "What did you do _that_ for?"

"You're underage, Éponine," he told her. "We've falsified your documents, of course, so there won't be any legal questions about getting your father's permission or any of all that business, but... well, you know your father. You know what sort of things he does." He looked distinctly uncomfortable saying this sort of thing. Éponine couldn't see why. The truth was the truth, even if it hurt. "If he found out about you marrying Enjolras without consulting him, heaven only knows what he'd do! He would cause all sorts of problems... Enjolras certainly has enough to worry about without having legal difficulties on top of it all! Not to mention you'd be in trouble."

_He cares_, Éponine thought gladly. _He doesn't want me to get in trouble!_

"So you went to the Gorbeau house? All by yourself?"

He shook his head. "No, of course not. Enjolras took both Bahorel and I along, which was rather astute of him as it turns out."

"It was Antoine's idea?" Éponine asked, disappointed.

"Not exactly. I was the one who proposed dealing with your father now rather than later, but he was the one who wanted to ask for your hand in marriage, though."

Éponine couldn't help it: she laughed out loud. Marius looked at her as if she were mad, which didn't surprise her. Around him, she _felt_ mad. Once she had caught her breath a little, she said, "Oh, he is a foolish boy! Asking for my father's permission? Yes, he is foolish."

"He only wants to do the right thing," Marius said in a disapproving tone.

She shook her head. "It is sweet of him, I suppose, but he should know better than that. Or you should have told him."

"Éponine, he only wants to do what is right for the pair of you," Marius replied. "He and I both only want what is right for you. Trying to appease your father now was the best way to ensure that. I won't go into all the minutiae, but we have managed to ensure your father's silence. He won't bother you anymore, 'Ponine."

She heard but did not really register anything after _'he and I both,'_ her head spinning with those words. Yes, Marius cared. Maybe now that she was prettier, she could get him to see it, too? "Marius," she said softly, "Does it not bother you that I am marrying one of your closest friends?"

"Of course not," he said easily. "As I said, I want to see you happy, 'Ponine. Won't being off the streets and safe with Enjolras make you happy?"

_Not as much as you would_, she wanted to scream. "I suppose it will," she said, resisting the temptation to scream. "I'm not likely to get a better offer, am I?" _Like an offer from you._

Marius smiled. "Enjolras is a good man," he said. "Probably the best man I know, though he may not seem like it at first. I know he takes some warming up to, but believe me... you couldn't end up with anyone better."

_I could end up with you!_ Éponine cried silently.

At that moment the door swung open and Musichetta sauntered over the threshold. Marius rose quickly to his feet. She stopped dead upon seeing Marius. "Who are you?" she asked.

"This is my friend, Monsieur le Baron Marius Pontmercy," Éponine said. Musichetta raised an eyebrow, prompting Éponine to add, "He and I have known each other for several years, and he is also a friend of Antoine's."

Musichetta's expression relaxed into her usual coy smile. "Oh, well don't let me interrupt you," she said. "Go on as if I weren't even here!"

Marius stared after Musichetta for a moment as she walked out of the room. Éponine wasn't surprised. _Everyone_ stared at Musichetta. Well, everyone male, anyway. "You had better be careful," Éponine said, feeling a little stab of envy at Musichetta's beauty. "You may be Joly's friend, but I think he'd pound you just the same."

Marius blinked, turned scarlet, and quickly dropped back into his seat. "Anyway," he said, then paused to clear his throat. "I actually came here for a specific reason. I saw your sister yesterday."

Éponine smiled, despite the pain in her heart. She loved her sister and her rarely-seen younger brother, Gavroche. She didn't always show it the way she probably ought to, but they almost made being part of the Thenardier family worth it. She had always seen Azelma as a weakling, but she was dependable, and Gavroche never failed to make her smile (when she could find him, at least).

"What does 'Zelma say?" she asked.

"She asked me to tell you not to forget her, when you're married," Marius said.

The words struck right to the heart of her. Forget Azelma? Of course not! Never. She would do her very best to forget her father and, to a lesser extent, her mother. But Azelma was her sister!

"Of course I won't forget her!" Éponine exclaimed. "I never forget the people I care about." Feeling daring, she reached out and pressed his hand in her own. "Thank you for bringing me her message. You don't know how much it means, Marius."

He smiled gently at her. "Of course, 'Ponine." Then he glanced at his pocket watch and sighed, getting to his feet. "I should go. They're expecting me at the cafe any minute- I only really stopped by to bring you your sister's message."

"Not to see me?" Éponine asked as he made for the door, hating the fact that she thought she heard a whine in her own voice.

Marius laughed. "I always like seeing you, _mon ami_."

She nodded without saying a word.

"Goodbye, Musichetta!" he called. "I'll say hello to Joly for you, shall I?" A muffled reply could be heard from the next room and, satisfied, Marius turned back to Éponine. "Goodbye, 'Ponine."

He left.

Éponine shut the door behind him and leaned her back against it, closing her eyes against the tears threatening to spill. "Goodbye," she whispered.

All at once, she heard Musichetta say, very close to her, "_Mon dieu_, Éponine, what is _wrong_ with you?"

She opened her eyes to find the shorter girl staring at her very intently. "What?" she asked tiredly.

Musichetta grabbed her by the hand and dragged her over to the chair she had just vacated, pushing her down into it and taking up residence in the other. "You care for him, don't you! _That's_ why you're so cool about your fiancé, isn't it?"

"And so what if I do?" Éponine snapped.

"Well, there's nothing really wrong with that," Musichetta said, "except that it makes you foolish!"

"Everyone says I am foolish," Éponine muttered. "Go on, then. Why do _you_ think I am a fool?"

Musichetta, to her credit, either did not notice Éponine's snappish tone or was gracious enough to overlook it. "Éponine, you'll endanger everything you stand to gain with Enjolras if you keep moping after that other boy!"

"I can't help it," Éponine said sadly. "I love him."

"And he...?"

"Doesn't seem to see me."

Musichetta's violet eyes turned sympathetic. "Oh you poor dear," she said. "I suppose, given how you were living, it's maybe not surprising. Still, it's never fair when you're torn in two, is it?"

"What would you know?" Éponine sighed enviously. "You're madly in love with someone who loves you back."

"That doesn't mean I don't sometimes feel divided," Musichetta said. She turned a little pink. "May I confide in you, Éponine?"

She nodded, not really caring one way or another right now.

"I... well, the truth is, there was a time when I almost left Alexandre for Laigle."

Of all the things that Musichetta could have said, that was the last thing Éponine had expected. "What?" she exclaimed.

The blonde looked down at her lap with wistful eyes. "I care very much for both of them," she explained. "They are both such good boys... I suppose I am a little bit in love with both, really. And at the time, I felt certain I must love Laigle more. I thought I would surely die if I couldn't be with him. I was a coward, though. Joly is well-off, his parents are bourgeois. If there is any future for us, Alexandre would be able to provide for me. Laigle... well, he's a darling, but he can hardly keep a roof over his own head, let alone look after a mistress or a wife."

Éponine gaped. "So you're only with Joly because he is wealthier?"

Musichetta laughed her tinkling laugh, with an edge of sad wisdom to it. "No. It's much more complicated than that. I love him. Truly, I do. And what I felt then for Laigle faded with time, though of course I still care for him. I took the safe path, I chose the safe man, and I'm glad I did. Alexandre and I are good together. But that doesn't mean I don't sometimes wonder what would have come if I had taken the risk and... well." She looked intently at Éponine. "Do you understand why I am telling you this?"

"Not really," Éponine confessed.

"What I'm trying to say is, you have these feelings for this Marius, and you think he's the only one for you. But Enjolras wants to marry you. He'll take care of you. And it might never be the same with him as it could have been with Marius, but it's the safe thing to do."

Éponine sighed. "But Antoine doesn't love me, and from what I know of him, he isn't likely to. And I don't love him, either. It's foolish, as you say, for someone like me to be so picky when I've got such an opportunity at my fingertips, but I... I don't want to be without love."

"Does Marius care for you in that way?" Musichetta asked.

"I want him to, but..."

"But it seems unlikely?"

"Yes."

"Then make the safe choice- the _wise_ choice. Marry the man who'll have you."

Éponine sighed. Wasn't that what she had already decided to do? So why was it so hard to hear from someone else's lips?

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><p><strong>AN-** Next chapter is nuptials!

Reviews, pretty please?


	10. 9: Eyes Wide Open

**A/N-** Despite much digging and (attempted) research, Google/my library has failed me and I know no more about the fine details of French marriage customs in 1830 today than I did a week ago. As you can tell, I'm just winging it. Sorry. This chapter is pretty weird as a result, but I think you'll appreciate it anyway.

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><p><em>Chapter 9<em>  
><em>December 12th, 1830<em>

Enjolras was not a vain man. He paid only the least possible required attention to his appearance and dress, enough to be presentable at all times. Beyond that, he had no time or inclination for staring at his own reflection. Today, though, he found himself examining himself in the mirror. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, and he was convinced he looked paler than usual.

Suddenly disgusted with himself, he ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Joly is clearly rubbing off on me," he muttered.

At that moment, from somewhere behind the door Combeferre's voice called out, "Are you coming, Antoine? We'll be late!"

"Yes, give me just a moment!"

He gave himself one more glance, then turned away with a resigned shake of his head. It seemed that all of his determined Not Fretting over the past few weeks was catching up to him today, and heaping a little extra on in unfair retaliation.

Once out in the hall, he found Combeferre leaning against his doorpost with a complex look on his face. "We had best hurry, _mon ami_," he said, and a hint of amusement entered his expression. "It would not do to be late for your own wedding!"

Enjolras said nothing, simply put on his hat and made for the stairs.

The two best friends arrived at the courthouse at five minutes to three. "Perfect timing!" Combeferre exclaimed. Enjolras was silent.

He entered the little room where the ceremony was to take place and found there were several people already there. Marius and Courfeyrac were to be witnesses in addition to Combeferre. Feuilly was waiting quietly in the corner. He had informed Enjolras that the sooner he had the paperwork, the easier it would be to alter the dates, as the ink would still be fresh. They had arranged for him to be at the wedding in order to take the documents immediately. Jehan was there as well. He had no particular reason to be there, but Enjolras doubted he'd have been able to keep the young man away. Jehan loved weddings.

"Where is Éponine?" Combeferre asked.

Marius shrugged. "I saw Joly on my way here. He said that lady friend of his was fussing over her. They ought to arrive soon enough."

Courfeyrac, meanwhile, looked to Enjolras. "Now what have we here? The unshakeable Enjolras, growing faint at last! I never thought I'd see the day." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Never fear, my friend. It is normal- or so I am told- to be terrified on your wedding day."

"I am _not_ terrified."

"Yes you are!" Courfeyrac insisted. "Look at him, _mes amis_! Does he not look pale?"

The others took note of the taller man's glower and wisely shook their heads in the negative.

"Oh, you're all dull anyway," Courfeyrac said, put out. "Antoine, that is why I do not tie myself down to a single woman! It is unwise to limit oneself, when there are so many sweet ladies in the world. Not one woman- many!"

"I do not want many women," Enjolras said.

"How short-sighted," Courfeyrac said with a chuckle.

At that moment, the door of the room opened and a blonde whirlwind entered. "Oh I'm so tremendously sorry we're late!" Musichetta exclaimed. "It is my fault, I do apologize. I just couldn't stand to see dear 'Ponine get married looking anything less than her best. Please say the magistrate is not here yet!"

As Feuilly spoke up, confirming that the magistrate had not yet arrived, a taller, much quieter figure slipped in behind Musichetta.

Enjolras stared. Behind him, he heard Courfeyrac remark, "Well what do you know, Pontmercy? You were right, she's actually rather pretty," but he paid little attention. Courfeyrac had spoken true, however, because Éponine was transformed.

She looked better than he could ever recall seeing her. Her red hair was bound up fashionably, tucked beneath a broad-brimmed white hat. Two weeks of Musichetta's cooking had taken away a little bit of that starved look, and her cheeks had a bit of healthy color to them. It was plain that Musichetta had put the money Enjolras had given her to good use, for Éponine was well-dressed. Her gown was a pale, creamy yellow, trimmed simply but fashionably with white lace, and her cracked, scarred hands were tidily concealed beneath matching lace gloves. Her lips were painted, her eyes were more bright and aware than usual, and Musichetta had clearly been coaching her on her posture. Enjolras was used to seeing her scuttle around with her shoulders hunched in, as if afraid of receiving a blow about the head at any moment, and now that he had met her father he thought he understood why. Now however she walked, not quite with the serene and delicate grace of a well-bred woman (she took far too long and purposeful strides for that), but certainly with her head held high and her shoulders straight.

Yes, Enjolras thought, she actually _was_ rather pretty. Éponine made fine was quite something. It wasn't a complete transformation, of course. Nothing could be done for her unfortunate height or her nonexistent figure, and despite the powder Musichetta had pressed on her cheeks, her skin still plainly showed that she had been out in the sun and wind too often and for too long. Still, she looked significantly more like a lady and significantly less like the dirty gamine she had been only three weeks earlier. She wasn't an exceptional beauty, not like Musichetta, but when contrasted with how she had looked three weeks previously, the difference was startling.

Her eyes landed on Marius, and a pained expression crossed her face, quickly gone. She wrenched her gaze away from the young man and it fell instead on her fiancé. At the sight of him, a rare but characteristic little cheeky grin crossed her lips.

"Antoine, you look positively ill," she said, and from her tone he gathered that he had better resign himself to another round of teasing.

"Yes, come _mes amis_!" Courfeyrac cried. "Let us stand aside to give our dear Enjolras a few moments alone with his intended!" So saying, he all but dragged Marius and Feuilly to the door. Musichetta and Combeferre, who was laughing despite himself, followed.

Enjolras vowed to strangle Courfeyrac next time he got his hands on him.

Éponine had stopped smiling, but she still looked slightly amused, a little spark in her eye that faded out as she crossed the last few feet to stand by his side. She did not look at him directly. Instead, she stood to his side and gazed at the portrait of Louis-Phillipe that graced the opposite wall, which he himself was attempting to find fascinating.

"You don't want to do this," she said abruptly.

"And neither do you," he replied.

"Yes and no. I want to be better than I have been. I did nothing to earn the life I have led except to suffer the misfortune of being my father's daughter- and make no mistake, I _am_ that no matter how much I hate him. Still, that doesn't mean I have to follow in his footsteps, if I'm lucky. Yes, I want to find a way to escape. What we're doing today is the first chance I've really had to do that. But do I actually want to marry _you_? No."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Because you care for Marius?"

Her dark eyes widened in shock and she clapped one gloved hand over her mouth. "Is it that obvious?" she whispered between her fingers.

"To everyone but him."

Éponine let out a soft groan. "Oh God. I thought I hid it so well."

"I do not know you all that well, Éponine, but from what I have observed, you are not very adept at concealing things."

She snorted. "Some things, but not things like this." She sighed then. "So you know that I love Marius, then?"

"It's as serious as love, is it?"

"Yes, I think it must be. What else is it if not love?" After a little pause, she asked, "Does it not bother you that you are about to marry a woman who is in love with another man?"

"In this particular union, love is hardly a factor," he replied. "It makes no difference to me where your heart lies."

"Most men want to own their woman, one way or another. If they can't cage up their heart, they cage up their body," Éponine observed, and he could tell immediately that he was being tested. Éponine was used to being at her liberty, such as it was. He could tell from the slight hint of fear in her eyes that she wondered if he would restrict her because she could not give him an emotional tether. Dear God, she really was damaged goods, wasn't she? Then again, in this state of society it was hardly surprising that life had rendered her thus.

"I oppose the subjugation of any human being, be they man or woman," Enjolras countered.

She looked at him very intently, and he felt compelled to meet her eyes. "You are a strange man, Antoine," she said.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Probably because it's true. You look at the world so differently... I can hardly understand the way you see things! It must be dazzling to be you."

"Not particularly."

"You only say that because you're used to looking out through your own eyes," she said.

Once again, her words and manner of speaking hinted at untapped intelligence, and her perspective was a strange one. If she was wondering what the world looked like to him, he was certainly wondering what it looked like to her. She had an odd way of examining things and it made their conversations, few though they had been, quite interesting to say the least. It was as though she saw her world with ancient and youthful eyes at the same time, he thought, both through the jaded experience of her pathetic life and through the rosy lenses of youth and naïvete. How such a thing was possible, he was not sure, but Éponine managed it.

"I guess it's true what they say of you," she mused, looking at him with that direct stare he found so disturbing.

"Who is 'they'?" he asked, perplexed.

Éponine smirked. "Just people. You're known around here, you know. People remember you from the barricades during that ruckus in July. You might not be aware, but people on the street see you and sometimes you're kind to them. People aren't like that, so when you come along talking treasonous things in the street and helping the poor, well, people can't help but talk about it. I heard of you ages before I met you. Never learned your name, but the first time I saw you in the cafe... it had to be you, didn't it? A girl I used to know said you looked like an angel, and acted like one, too."

Enjolras wasn't quite sure how to take that. "I'm hardly an angel."

"I wouldn't be so sure," she said, and she laughed to herself. "We do make a funny pair, don't we? The angel and the devil. Ironic."

Was this, then, how she viewed herself? Éponine had not been on the honest side of the law or the healthy side of a family for some time; who knew what it had done to the way she felt about herself?

"You're not-" he began, but she shook her head, smiling bitterly.

"Don't try to deny it, Antoine. I'm from bad seed. You're probably making an awful mistake, you know."

"So you think we're in the wrong to be doing this?"

She shrugged. "Unbelievably wrong. If I were a good person, I'd back out now and save you from it, but I'm not a good person. I'm selfish. I want to be pretty and off the street, so I'll go through with this. Even if you _are_ wrong to let me."

Before he could respond to her last statement, the door opened and the magistrate entered, followed quickly by the little cluster of Enjolras's friends plus Musichetta.

Unwilling to let the conversation drop there, Enjolras leaned in close and whispered in her ear, "Prove me right. I dare you."

She looked at him with her brown eyes going huge, then narrowing suspiciously. He did not know her that well, but he did not think she would be able to back down from a challenge. With a triumphant little smirk, he straightened up and turned to face the fast-approaching government official.

"Good day, Magistrate Blanchard," he said amiably.

The magistrate nodded his head in greeting, smiling beatifically. He was a large man of average height, with thick little fingers, bloodshot eyes, and a perpetual air of austere benevolence. "And a lovely afternoon to you as well. A perfectly charming day for a wedding, don't you agree, Monsieur Enjolras?" A thoughtful look crossed his face. "Enjolras... Enjolras... I'm sure I know that name." Comprehension struck him suddenly, causing his eyes to widen triumphantly. "Ah, yes! Any relation to General Olivier Enjolras?"

"His son," Enjolras replied tersely.

Magistrate Blanchard nodded. "I have heard of your father," he said with the air of contented wisdom common to men who have reached and are satisfied with having achieved a mediocre standing within the strata of power. "He was reported to be a brilliant strategist, and a hero of the Restoration, was he not?"

"He was," Enjolras said. He noted Éponine looking at him closely.

"And you're sure to follow in your father's footsteps, aren't you?" the older man said with a wink.

"We shall see," Enjolras replied, taking a deep breath to stop himself from grinding his teeth in irritation. He was not remotely like his father!

"But are your parents not here today?" Blanchard said. "Surely the want to witness their son's marriage!"

Enjolras suddenly found himself stuck for words. It was not something he had even considered. What could he say to avoid raising suspicion? This was not really a situation that called for strict honesty; the last thing he needed was for this officious man to go saying the wrong things to the wrong people and then this whole ruse would collapse and he'd be right back where he started.

Before he could say a word, however, Éponine spoke up. "His parents could not travel so far in this weather," she said.

Enjolras smiled at her inventiveness and completed the lie for her. "We will be returning to Lyon once the roads clear to have a ceremony performed by the Church."

The magistrate grinned knowingly. "But you simply couldn't wait so long," he said, winking at Enjolras. "I understand completely, my boy. And what of the lady's parents? Unless I misread the papers, she is but sixteen..."

Combeferre interrupted, "You will note that both of her parents are deceased. Eloise and Gilbert Thenardier, both dead of illness some years ago."

Blanchard grimaced. "Oh, my condolences. Yes of course, I do recall reading- Yes. Nasty business. Terribly sorry to have brought it up at a time like this!" He glanced at the papers he was carrying, which did indeed claim the deaths of a former innkeeper from Montfermeil. Enjolras thanked Providence that the record-keeping, particularly in little outlying towns like Montfermeil, had been so poor under Louis XVIII, as the confused paperwork had provided just enough apparent corroboration that no one had so much as raised an eyebrow at Éponine's falsified documents.

"In that case, I suppose now that we have that all cleared up, we had better start, yes?"

Enjolras nodded. He felt Éponine's little hand slip into his and pulled away on reflex, but she was quicker and held on. He decided to let her cling to his hand. Getting married was a nerve-wracking thing, and she probably needed the reassurance of human contact. He didn't need any such thing, of course, but surely she would.

Civil ceremonies were by nature short and simple. No one really wanted to celebrate their marriage in the _mairie_, after all. While the civil observances were the legally-binding element, the religious ceremony that ordinarily followed was the source of most of the pomp and circumstance. This contract consisted of a few short vows and the presence of witnesses.

Despite this brevity, however, by the time Marius was signing as their last witness Enjolras found himself feeling anxious, because while traditions varied, he had a feeling he knew what the presiding official would say next. Éponine did not seem to share his anxiety, as she was too busy staring sadly at Marius, which annoyed him more than it should have and only served to heighten his nerves.

"Well then," Magistrate Blanchard said robustly, smiling at a job well done.

_Here it comes..._

"Under laws of France and her king, I declare you to be married. Now go on, young man. Kiss your bride." The magistrate gave him an indulgent wink, as if to say _Go on, my boy, I know you want to_.

Enjolras glanced at Éponine. She smiled and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Well, what was to be done? Taking a preparatory breath, Enjolras leaned down and pressed his lips hesitantly to hers. She responded to his kiss immediately, but with what he thought was matching reluctance.

He wouldn't know, though. He had never kissed a woman before.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** Because even the marble lover of liberty gets nervous on his wedding day. ;P

Please review? Nobody did last time, and it made me sad. I always love and appreciate your feedback...


	11. 10: The Gamine and the Lighthouse

**A/N-** So, I've been rereading the Brick (again). Got to the Amis bios. Read Combeferre's. Realized once again that we have freakishly similar interests. It would be a disaster if we were ever put in the same room together. I'd lecture about plate tectonics (which would be news to him, I'm sure, and therefore all the more fascinating to him especially once I whipped out the mathematics to prove it) and he'd talk about mountain formations and glaciation and everybody else would end up just leaving us there because we'd never shut up! I love geology, so freaking much... and that's just the start of it. We could set about unraveling Hobbes' reasoning, and discussing the hypotheticals behind certain brands of mysticism... Oh yes, 'Ferre and I would get along wonderfully.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 10<br>Later that day_

Once all the papers were finalized the group had left the _mairie_ and, with the documents handed off to Feuilly for alteration, had gone their separate ways. Enjolras found himself left alone with Éponine. Even Combeferre had declined to share a fiacre back to the Rue Royer-Collard, claiming that he had some business to attend to before returning home. He and Éponine sat in the fiacre as it jolted through the streets, staring at each other.

Enjolras was, understandably, a little annoyed with his friends for abandoning him.

When he had been younger, he had never been very good at talking to girls, and though his eloquence had improved greatly as he had matured, the youthful habit of remaining mostly taciturn around women around his age had never left him. What on earth was he to do now that he had a girl he barely knew as a rather permanent fixture in his life?

He was reassured, however, by the fact that Éponine did not seem to be faring much better than he. Twice he saw her open her mouth as if to speak, and twice she settled back into taut silence. It was comforting to know that he was not the only one who seemed to have no idea how to handle this life-altering business they had undertaken so suddenly.

Finally, though, it seemed that she at least could bear it no longer. "So what happens now?" she asked, in that slightly hoarse voice of hers.

"Honestly? I've absolutely no idea," he replied candidly.

"Well then that makes two of us," she said. "I figured you'd have all the answers!"

"Hardly!"

She laughed, quietly for once, which he took as a sign of her nervousness. "It's nice to see that you're not all-knowing on top of everything else!"

"Is that really what you think of me?"

Éponine sat forward in her seat, giving him her full attention. "You have to understand, Antoine, that until this scheme was brought up, I only saw you from the position of being Marius's friend." Her eyes grew sad at that word: _friend_. "Just a gamine, really. Not a lady of class, not part of your society that meets at the cafe, not your friend, nothing to you. I've spent months looking at you as a stranger, and to strangers you're very imposing. Your friends may be comfortable enough to tease you, but from a distance you're..." She struggled briefly to find the right words before she finally settled on: "You're like a lighthouse."

Enjolras stared at her. "What?"

She chuckled again, and this time the laughter was freer and more genuine. "Oh! You should see the look on your face!" she said. Then she sobered enough to explain, "When I was a little girl my _maman_ showed me drawings of the old lighthouses on the coast. I always thought they were so tall and strong, sort of beating back the sea almost, but they were also so far away, somehow. Even though my _maman_ told me that little light at the top shines out to sea for miles and miles, in the drawings it always looked so high up, like no one could ever reach it from down on the ground. You're like that, I think."

Then she said, in an almost angry tone, "Whatever are you staring at me like that for?"

"You have a very strange perspective on things," he said. Something about her unusual analogy had struck him very powerfully and painfully, and he could not explain why.

"That's me," she responded with a wistful look on her face, "Never quite what people want or expect." Then her expression changed very abruptly, as if she had turned a corner within her mind, and she said cheerfully, "Well, if your friends can tease you, then I shall try not to think of you that way anymore. You're not made of marble, after all!"

Enjolras was completely unsure how to reply to this, and settled for nodding awkwardly.

The fiacre rattled to a halt in front of the building where he- now they- lived. Enjolras exited the carriage first, handed her down, paid the driver, and together they entered the building. Éponine's eyes were wide as they ascended the stairs.

"You live _here_?" she breathed. "It's so beautiful!"

"My father's doing," he replied. "I'd have been happier with less ostentatious lodgings, but no son of Olivier Enjolras is going to live anywhere less than the best, it would seem." He heard the bitterness in his own voice and regretted that his father's ways could frustrate him so easily and over something so relatively trivial. "Still, given what we've just done, I think we'll be grateful for the extra space it affords." He would be, at least. He enjoyed his privacy, and the apartment's four large rooms would afford him at least some of that.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, only to discover each and every one of his friends packed into his flat.

He stared in amazement at them, and before he could say a word, Grantaire approached him, threw an arm around his shoulder and said, "My condolences on abandoning your bachelorhood, _mon ami_!"

"What in God's name are you all doing here?" Enjolras demanded, recovering the use of his voice quite abruptly as Grantaire's perpetual smell of whiskey washed over him. He pushed the drunkard off him. Beside him, he heard Éponine quietly chuckling. "Do you know anything about this?" he asked her in an undertone.

She put on an innocent face. "Only what Musichetta told me," she said.

He groaned. "You couldn't have thought to warn me?"

"I thought it would be funnier to wait to see your face."

"I think I hate you a little," he hissed, even as Grantaire grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the throng. This did not alter her mischievously pleased expression in the slightest. He shook his head and turned; raising his voice to address the group, he said, "If I may ask, what made you think this was even remotely a good idea?"

Combeferre replied, "It was Grantaire's plan."

"Of course it was," Enjolras muttered.

Courfeyrac added, "Well, you wouldn't let us take you drinking last night. We had to do something!"

Enjolras sighed. "You are all perfectly aware that-"

"-That it's a sham marriage. Yes, yes, we know!" Joly exclaimed brightly. "But whether it's real or not, it's legally binding, making you officially the first of the Amis to become a married man! That is well worth celebrating!"

Enjolras covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder. "If it's any consolation, Enjolras, we all figured you'd be the last bachelor left standing, not the first to go."

To judge from the look Enjolras gave him, it was rather plain to the eyes that this was no consolation at all.

"Come! Have a drink, Enjolras!" Grantaire exclaimed. He thrust a glass of wine into Enjolras's hand. "And you!" he cried, wheeling to face Éponine who still hesitated near the door. "Allow me to be the first to congratulate the bride!" He kissed Éponine's gloved hand, somehow managing to perform such a commonplace action with a tremendously ironic air, and said, "My best wishes, Madame Enjolras."

Upon hearing this Enjolras felt faint, and he saw Éponine turn pale as well.

"That is me, now," he heard her say softly, a look of complete surprise on her face. He understood completely. Despite the vows they had exchanged not even two hours previously, it had not seemed real, until the drunkard had said that.

"Indeed it is!" Grantaire proclaimed loudly. "Everyone! Come and pay their respects to the new Madame Enjolras!"

"Once again, Grantaire displays all the tact and sensitivity which the hammer shows to the anvil," Marius murmured in his ear, coaxing a reluctant smile from Enjolras.

The pair of them hung back while the rest of the Amis crowded around Éponine.

"Good luck, _mon ami_," Marius said, a broad grin on his face as he shook Enjolras's hand. "You're going to need it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your wife," the younger man explained patiently. "I doubt you really have any idea what you've gotten yourself into, Antoine. She's a wild thing when she wants to be. If there's any woman in France who can stand up next to you without being completely overwhelmed, it's 'Ponine."

Enjolras looked at Marius. "Why do you call her that?" he asked, choosing to ignore the rather loaded statement the pet name had come attached to.

"What, 'Ponine?"

"Yes. It sounds like a nickname someone would give to a child, not a woman nearly grown."

Marius shrugged. "She _was_ a child when I started calling her that. She was thirteen when we met!"

Enjolras studied the object of his wife's affections closely. He thought of the story Marius had told, about Éponine intervening in an attempt to rob him at arms, and wondered how old she had been then. "And you still see her that way, don't you?" he asked, though he thought he knew the answer. "To you, she will always be that young girl you met so many years ago, won't she?"

Marius smiled reminiscently. "I suppose you're right about that. No matter how many times she pulls me out of sticky situations, she'll always be little 'Ponine, who used to steal my books."

_I thought as much_, Enjolras thought wearily. He hoped that Éponine would be able to put her infatuation with Marius in the past. When he had first agreed to this plan, he had not thought it would bother him very much that she was so smitten with one of his closest friends, but it seemed he had surprised himself. This marriage was based on necessity, not affection, but despite that, it was beginning to sink in that Éponine was his _wife_. He did not consider himself to be a possessive man, but to his amazement, the idea of his wife sighing after someone else was a distinctly unpleasant prospect.

* * *

><p>Grantaire's little impromptu party carried on for several hours, during which time Enjolras hardly saw Éponine, as Musichetta and Laigle had absconded with her to the much quieter kitchen. He was rather grateful for this, as he wasn't quite ready to try and have a sensible conversation with her just yet. All in all, despite the circumstances, it was actually a rather pleasant occasion. Though to be perfectly honest, he could have done without Courfeyrac and Grantaire deciding that the best way to pass the evening was a drinking contest which ended with the pair of them barely able to walk and shouting out crude songs at the top of their lungs (Grantaire in tune, Courfeyrac very much not so), a proceeding which was only brought to a halt by the concierge rapping on the door and exclaiming that if they did not keep quiet, he would call the gendarmes.<p>

This more or less signaled the end of the evening. Joly and Laigle, both tipsy themselves, took it upon themselves to escort the exuberant Courfeyrac home while Marius, brave soul that he was, volunteered to deal with Grantaire. And so the group trickled out, one by one, until at last it was just himself and Éponine left.

He sighed, sitting down heavily in one of the wing-backed chairs that flanked the fireplace in the parlor. Éponine crossed the floor on quiet feet and took up residence in the other. Enjolras stared at the fire, deep in thought, and she seemed perfectly content to keep him company in silence.

_So you can be quiet_, he thought, pleased with the discovery. During the few conversations he had had with her, Éponine been perpetually chattering about something or other. It was a trait common to women, and magnified to a rather extraordinary degree in Éponine. Her fount of words seemed as endless as Grantaire's. He had feared that he would never have a moment's peace again. Now, though, she had fallen silent and alternated between watching the fire and watching him.

Some years back, he had come to the decision that he would not bother himself with women until the time was right. He had no interest in trifling with some grisette in the way many of his friends seemed to enjoy. He was too responsible for that (after all, what if he made some poor girl pregnant?). Such fleeting affairs seemed entirely unfruitful in any event. What was the point of any endeavor if it wasn't meant to be lasting? It was true in law-making, and in his eyes it was certainly true in romance as well.

In a contradictory line of thinking, however, he had no interest in forming a lasting attachment either. Being married took up a great deal of a man's time; he knew this from years of watching his father's careful handling of his mother. His time was precious and he had no interest in wasting it when there was still so much he had to do for his country.

It did not help that the sorts of women his parents had hinted it would be appropriate for him to make a match with were repulsive to him. They were beautiful and charming, it was true, but it was their other attributes that put him off so thoroughly. They submitted without question to the will of their father or guardian, and he knew it would be only too easy to subjugate any one of them in exactly the same manner. Enjolras's very ideals made such a relationship abhorrent to him. To make matters worse, none of the young daughters his parents' friends ever seemed to have anything interesting to talk about! No matter how lovely a girl's face, it could not make up for an empty head.

With Éponine, though, he was beginning to feel it might be possible to strike a balance. It would be a life built out of convenience and a few well-chosen lies, but perhaps the pair of them would get along tolerably well. She might talk endlessly about anything that struck her fancy, but she could be silent as well. She was no beautiful rose with all the right breeding, not by any man's measure, but she was practical. For all that they had been married less than a day, Enjolras found himself feeling optimistic. He and Éponine could, perhaps, be friends. If this was possible, it would make their new shared life together even pleasant. He could be more than content with that, and his father would not be able to manipulate him anymore.

_Oh God, his father..._

"I shall have to write to my father tomorrow," Enjolras said, mostly to himself.

"What will he do?" she asked.

He shrugged, not looking at her, still largely embroiled in his own thoughts. "It is hard to say. My father likes to be unpredictable- it was what made him such an asset as a military man. Most likely, though, he'll come to Paris to have it out with me, and possibly you as well. I apologize in advance for that."

"You must really hate him," Éponine observed.

He looked at her, startled. "No! No, of course not. I could never hate him, not really. He is my father, after all. We just don't see things the same way about a great many things."

"You're a far better person than I am, then," she said darkly.

"Do you despise your father so much, then?"

"The priests in the church always talk about forgiveness," Éponine said. "From what they say, I guess I ought to forgive him for not caring about us and for dragging us down with him, but I can't. If I were smart I'd have run ages ago. I'm really not sure why I never have."

"Maybe," Enjolras said, "It's because you're a better person than he is."

She snorted. "Doubt it."

"As I said earlier, prove otherwise," he challenged her again. For a very long moment they stared at each other, each daring the other to look away first. Enjolras was not used to having conversations like this. He kept his innermost thoughts hidden from everyone except perhaps Combeferre, while it was plain that his new wife, in contrast, wore everything she felt on her sleeve. Strangely though, he found he wasn't bothered by this trait in Éponine. Perhaps, he thought, it was because she didn't belabor the point with excessive dramatics; for her, these were just the facts of her life and the thoughts in her head and she stated them as such.

After some time, Éponine at last dropped her eyes in defeat. He sighed, and rose to his feet. "This has been a rather long day, and I have important things to attend to tomorrow. Perhaps we had best turn in for the night."

She stood up, and the practicalities of the situation assailed him very abruptly.

"How shall we arrange this?" he wondered aloud. "This isn't a... well, it's not a _typical_ marriage and we're certainly not a- a _couple_ the way people would think, so-"

"Antoine," she interrupted him, "You're blushing."

"No, I'm not."

"You are!"

He groaned internally at her delighted, teasing smirk. He now thought he understood precisely what Marius had been saying earlier. Given her personality, Éponine was not likely to palliate the adjustment process in the slightest. He should have expected it, he supposed.

"Very well. Since you are embarrassed, I will take pity on you and solve it all," she said, still with an air of teasing him. "No, we're not a young couple in love, and as such we won't be laying with each other. Considering that, I don't see much harm in us sharing a bed, but since you're all pink just thinking about that, I'm perfectly willing to sleep on the divan."

Her frankness shocked him a little, but that wasn't really the issue here. No matter how unconventional their arrangement was, no matter how unnerved he was by the prospect of sharing a bed with anyone, Enjolras had been raised to be a gentleman, nothing less. "No, Éponine, that would not be right," he said.

"It's perfectly fine," she insisted. "It's bound to be a fair bit more comfortable than anywhere I've slept in years."

That settled it, in his mind. He had affirmed to himself that he was going to save this girl, hadn't he? That had been the decision that had cemented itself in his mind when he had spoken to her father. He would not do this the way he would with a dog, by giving her just the scraps of a good life and allowing her to be content with that simply because it was still better than what she'd had before! He would care for Éponine properly, no matter how daunting or uncomfortable a prospect it seemed to be.

"We will share the bed," he said decisively. "We'll just... we'll take turns changing until I can purchase a dressing screen for you."

Éponine looked at him with that intent stare of hers, then said quietly, "You're far kinder to me than I deserve, Antoine."

"No one deserves the kind of life you have had," he countered firmly. "I am only doing what is right. Now, I think Musichetta and Joly brought your bags from her flat, did they not?"

She nodded. "They did." She gestured to the door leading to his bedroom. "I'll... I'll go get ready for bed, then." She left swiftly, pulling the door to behind her.

Yes, Enjolras thought, this was certainly better than the alternative, but he had a sneaking suspicion this would take a lot of getting used to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** To my anonymous reviewers, **G** and **jennysl**: I'm glad you both are enjoying this story so much!

To **XxTiernan's Lady LocksleyxX **who has turned off the PM feature so I can't respond: Yes, you may keep Courfeyrac. I imagine he'll appreciate that... ;}

Thank you to all three of you, and I hope you (and the rest of my readers) continue to enjoy my work!

Also, a special thank-you to **elfigreen14**, who beta'd this chapter when it was kicking my butt, and who has been a fantastic sounding-board for both of my E/E epics.


	12. 11: A Necessary Communication

** A/N-** I've just discovered a rather fantastic thing: a little one-act musical called Bluebird. Ramin Karimloo sings Ben on the album, which was how I discovered it, and frankly it's fantastic. His character is such a shameless flirt and yet so deep... sort of like what would happen if you jumbled up the personalities of Courfeyrac, Jehan and Enjolras and dropped him in the middle of WWII. It's just a little one-act piece, but it really packs a punch! Acquire it. Now.

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><p><em>Chapter 11<br>December 13th, 1830_

Enjolras woke early, in fact he was up before the sun, as was his habit. When he opened his eyes he found himself face-to-face with a sleeping Éponine.

He abandoned the warmth of the mattress quickly. His bed, though large enough to accommodate two, was only barely so. His sleep over the course of the night had been something of a restless one; he, being used to having the use of the entire bed, had felt particularly stifled once relegated to the left side. It was the first time in the whole of his life that he had shared a bed with anyone, and he could safely say he did not enjoy it.

_It could have been worse_, he reminded himself. _It could be Hyacinthe Guillory lying there_.

As he dressed, he glanced over at Éponine. She did not make anywhere near as pretty a picture as Hyacinthe would have, but he was glad that it was Éponine and not Hyacinthe who was occupying his bed. There was, he was surprised to find, a certain sweetness to Éponine when she was asleep. One could catch quick glimpses of it during her waking hours, when she laughed that unrestrained laugh or hers or when she was near Marius, but bitterness about her hard life concealed it most of the time. Looking at her like this, with her red hair out of its combs and fanned out in a wild frizz on the pillow and her expression utterly unguarded, was an almost surreal experience. It was almost like seeing Éponine as she might have been, had her father been respectable. She was still painfully thin, her collarbone protruding sharply and her cheeks still sunken, but with her face so relaxed, she seemed gentle and very young.

Suddenly her eyes blinked open.

"Antoine?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep. "Where are you going?"

"You should go back to sleep. I'm off for the Sorbonne," he explained. "Professor Blondeau's lecture starts in an hour."

"Oh."

So saying, she closed her eyes once more and immediately drifted off. He smiled in amusement, put on his coat, and quietly left the apartment.

* * *

><p>Some time later, once the sun had fully established herself in the morning sky, Éponine awoke. For a solid minute, she was utterly disoriented. This was neither her straw mattress in the Gorbeau House, nor was it the little couch in Musichetta's flat that she had made her own for the past few weeks.<p>

Then it dawned on her. Yesterday was her wedding day. She was in Antoine's home- now her home as well, she supposed.

She climbed out of bed and went to the window. She pushed aside the curtains and looked out on the street below. It had snowed the evening before, blanketing the whole of the Rue Royer-Collard in a fresh layer of white. She was sure she had been on this street before. She could recall running down the narrow street with her sister right on her heels. Or maybe it had been the gendarmes. Or maybe she had been the one following. Following Marius?

She sighed. Marius was well and truly lost to her now, wasn't he?

Musichetta's advice was ringing in her ears. "_Marry the man who'll have you... He'll take care of you..."_ But what good was a comfortable life without Marius in it?

Except he was in it. He was Antoine's friend, and he was still hers, too. He would still be there, as much as he ever had been. That might be worse than losing him completely, she thought. How was she to bear seeing him? At least before, there had been a chance- however slim- that Marius might one day look at her and realize he loved her the way she loved him. Now, though, that door was closed forever. She would be there as much as always, but on her husband's arm.

Her husband... good God, she was _married_! And to a man she didn't love in the slightest.

How ironic, she thought. Her mother had told her a hundred times that her name was specifically chosen, named for the Éponine of lore, who died at Caesar's feet for the love of her husband, Sabinus. Eloise Thenardier had hoped that being named for such a romantic figure would protect her eldest daughter from succumbing to the same fate, a loveless life tied to a worthless man, that she had suffered. When Éponine had met Marius, she had been sure he was the one her name was meant to guide her to.

Well, she had halfway succeeded, she supposed. Antoine was a thousand times the man her father was. She might not love him, but she trusted him and that was saying something. He would look after her, just as Musichetta said.

Was she always to be torn in two?

It was a question for another day. She did not want to be unhappy today. This was a day for warmer thoughts. She took a few minutes to straighten out the mess that had been made of the bedding. Then she dressed herself, today in the blue gown, struggling a little with the stays to which she was unused. She debated with herself as to whether she was going to pin her hair up, but decided it was too much effort unless she decided she was going to go out, which she was rather disinclined to do.

She wandered out into the parlor, wondering what she should do today. What on earth did the wives of wealthy men do with all their time?

All debate was immediately put out of her head when she caught sight of something that, due to the large numbers of Republicans crowding the space, she had not noticed the evening before: a very full bookshelf.

It was Éponine's one claim to gentility that she was literate. Through all the years that she had been cold and hungry, she had clung to that one simple fact as proof that she wasn't meant to be so. It meant she was a cut above all the other wretched waifs who occupied the gutter with her. She was eternally grateful to her mother for that one tremendous gift she had given her. When Marius had moved into the apartment next to theirs in the Gorbeau house, she had taken to stealing his books until he noticed they were missing and took them back with a perpetual air of gentle indulgence. In retrospect, she wasn't sure if Marius actually knew she had read them.

The sight of Antoine's stacks of books was like a magnet to her. She ran immediately to the shelf and sorted through the titles eagerly. Really it did not matter much what it was. Éponine would read anything, she hadn't exactly had the opportunity to be picky about her reading material when she was fortunate enough to get her hands on something. Eventually she settled on a slim volume entitled _Méditations Metaphysiques_, which she carried with her to the chair nearest the window in order to take advantage of the winter sunlight.

* * *

><p>Enjolras arrived home utterly worn out. Truth be told, he had not been as attentive to his studies lately as he perhaps ought to have been, and it was starting to catch up to him. It wasn't just the eagle-eyed Blondeau who seemed to be taking the opportunity to put him through the wringer. He tried to convince himself that the sudden excess of schoolwork wasn't a direct attack at himself, but it was rather difficult to believe that.<p>

When he entered his apartment, he found Éponine sitting at the table in the kitchen, her head in her hands, laughing quietly to herself.

"Éponine?" he asked, a bit worried for her state of mind.

She looked up at him sharply. "Oh! Hello, Antoine," she said, still with the traces of laughter in her expression.

"May I ask what you're laughing at?" He set his books down on the table.

She shrugged. "You really are a confirmed bachelor, aren't you?" she said, and it really was not a question at all. "I thought I would try to fix something up for dinner, but you don't really keep a stocked larder, do you?"

He sighed, sitting down across the table from her. "You're teasing me."

"Yes, I am."

"That's going to be a pretty regular occurrence, isn't it?"

"I assume so," she replied, grinning at him cheekily. "You make it rather easy."

"You and Grantaire both," he muttered. "No, as I usually dine out I don't bother to keep up my pantry. I am a student, after all."

She nodded. "Then you really do live at the Cafe Musain. I used to wonder if you ever left, and now it seems I was partially right!"

Éponine, he decided right then and there, was without a doubt the strangest creature he had ever met. He was pretty sure she was teasing him again, but there was something of honesty in her statement which unnerved him a little. "I do leave, sometimes," he said. "But the work we're doing there is important."

She did not respond to this.

"I'll write the letter to my father now, and afterwards we can go in search of supper," he told her, pulling a sheet of blank paper out of the pile of books and things he had brought in with him.

She leaned forward. "What are we going to tell him? What's our story?"

"I think it best to keep as close to the truth as possible, while still serving our purpose," he began.

"First rule of lying," Éponine said sagely. "That way it looks like the evidence corroborates your story."

"Precisely. I won't relate the whole story in a letter, of course, but-"

"But in case he comes here, like you think he will, we had better know what we're planning on telling him."

Enjolras nodded. "In that line of thinking, Feuilly found me today and told me that the documents have been altered. He's going to bring them to the meeting tomorrow, and he said that he changed the date of our ceremony to the fourth of August."

"The fourth of August..." Éponine chewed her lip thoughtfully. "What were you doing around that time?"

He shrugged. "Nothing special. Schoolwork, mostly. Lamenting the ascension of Louis-Philippe, otherwise."

"Yes, that was right around the time that happened, wasn't it?" Suddenly, a bright spark that might have been called mischief kindled in her dark eye. "I was a working girl," she said, sounding very pleased with herself. "A laundress. We met each other in April through our mutual friend, Musichetta, and you fell very much in love with me- oh, don't look like that Antoine, we both know it's all lies anyway!- but I would not give in to your advances. But after all that fighting in July, I was so worried for your safety that I finally agreed to be yours, and we were married within the week."

Enjolras shook his head. "I'm not sure he'll believe that. He's spent the last six years lamenting my apparent lack of interest in the opposite gender; a story that involves me in ardent pursuit of a lady's hand will give itself away as an obvious lie."

Éponine laughed. "Quite the opposite!" she exclaimed. "I'll bet your father is the type who is always convinced he's right about everything, isn't he?"

"Yes, how did you guess?"

"Because his son is the same. No, I _said_ don't look at me like that! It's not a bad thing, necessarily. And anyway, we can use it to our advantage. If your father has spent so long believing you're only being stubborn and just _waiting_ for the day when some girl sends you head-over-heels, he'll be so pleased to have been right all along that he won't stop to think about it more than that."

Enjolras looked at her curiously. "That's actually quite true," he said, amazed.

"I may not know all the fancy things that are in your books," Éponine replied, "But there are a lot of things I _do_ know about, and people are one of them. You have to be good at that, living on the street. It keeps you sharp." She gave him a smug grin.

And so the letter was written and posted, and the pair went off to dinner feeling rather pleased with themselves. Enjolras, however, could not help but feel a little apprehensive. He knew his father too well to think this would be taken easily.

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><p><strong>AN-** I'm not a huge fan of this chapter, but it had to be written so that I could get on to bigger and better things. And you know what I've noticed? I'm not nearly as fond of writing things from 'Ponine's point of view as I am of writing them from Antoine's. Perhaps it's just that he and I are so similar, and I can get inside his head much more easily...

Anyway, to my anonymous reviewer **PonineTeazerBlaze**: Thank you for your review, and I do hope you get a FFn account soon so that I can reply properly to any more reviews you leave! I'm glad you think this has some realism to it- I really try to keep my E/E stories as likely and realistic as possible, because it's a pairing that needs it more than perhaps any other.


	13. 12: Discourses

**A/N-** I am now totally obsessed with Bluebird. Ben is so utterly incorrigible, but very sweet! (And Ramin Karimloo's speaking voice sounds exactly like you'd think from his singing voice, which is gratifying to someone who's been trying to predict what his speaking voice would sound like for months.)

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><p><em>Chapter 12<br>December 18th, 1830_

Over the next several days, the unlikely couple settled into a curious sort of rhythm. Every day Enjolras rose at dawn and went to his classes, leaving Éponine asleep. Sharing the bed did not get easier, but he felt that with time he could surely become used to it. Sometime after he had left, Éponine rose and went about her day. Once she went out, and walked to the little park nearby, but the rest of the time, she remained in the apartment. She shut herself up with her husband's bookshelf, and was perfectly content with that. Entirely unbeknownst to him, Éponine was devouring the little volume of Descartes she had found that first day. Whether she really comprehended everything she read is doubtful, but as she struggled her way through the slim book of philosophy she felt more genuinely at peace than she had in some years. She was not a swift reader, but very dedicated, and she took an exceptional amount of delight in being able to broaden her mind.

_I always told him, didn't I?_ she said to herself. _I always told Marius I could have been a student, and look at me now! _

And so she passed her days by grappling with concepts which were far beyond any challenge that had ever been set to her mind before, and finding herself equal to them, though she did have to make liberal use of the dictionary she purchased at the bookshop.

When his classes were over for the day, Enjolras returned home, and the pair of them went to dinner together. Sometimes they were joined by other members of the Amis, but three times they dined alone, and on these occasions Enjolras found himself a little tongue-tied. He had no idea how to talk to Éponine. He could converse intelligently with his professors and his contemporaries at the university, and there were very few things at which he was more skilled than his eloquent addresses in the back room of the Cafe Musain. But present him with a young woman, and he was stuck for a subject to discuss.

Fortunately for him, Éponine was more than capable of bridging the gap. Uneducated she might be, but there were very few people in the world who could talk quite as extensively as the new Madame Enjolras. Quite without meaning to, she managed on several occasions to draw her ordinarily reserved husband into animated conversation about absolutely nothing at all.

In the aftermath of these kinds of discourses, Enjolras always found himself wondering how on earth she had done so. He was not a man who liked to waste words on trivial things, but Éponine spoke in a way that leant even everyday subjects interest and vivacity. She rambled sometimes, jumping from topic to topic without any apparent connection between them, lending her an air somewhat akin to a fluttering sparrow. Perhaps once, not so long ago, it would have been pathetic to see her speak so. Out of the mouth of a well-dressed woman however, even one who was very plain, her manner of talking was actually rather charming. Her chattering mien showed, not a lack of intelligence but rather a certain freedom of thought. She had not been trained to think in a specific way and so she formed her ideas, scattered though they were, in a manner that was uniquely her own.

While she plainly spent most of her time with her head in the clouds, what she had to say she said plainly and directly, which he found refreshing. She had no patience with dancing around a subject for the sake of delicacy. The life she had led had robbed her of any such illusions and refinements. She had a little to learn perhaps on the subject of tact. However, Enjolras found that he valued the ability to be very blunt with him that came with this deficiency.

After they had dined, he walked her home and departed on his own for the Cafe Musain, where he presided over the meetings of the Amis, or simply met with his friends if no regular meeting was arranged.

When Saturday came around, they found their routine varied slightly. Upon hearing that Louis-Philippe had been made king in July, Enjolras had deliberately taken a lighter class load this year, knowing that the work of the Revolution was not yet done. As such, he had managed to arrange it so that he did not have any classes on Saturdays. He had been glad of it as the society that became the Amis formed, because it allowed him to spend these days at the cafe or one of their other meeting-places, speaking with the working-men until the other students were able to join them.

"I usually spend my Saturdays at the Musain," he informed Éponine over breakfast.

She nodded. "I know. I did sometimes pay attention to more than just Marius." Her tone was not reproachful in the slightest, which was amazing to him. If his mother (or indeed _any_ of the other women he knew) had said such a thing, it would have been a barely-disguised reprimand.

"So I'm beginning to see," he replied, a slight smile on his face. "Will you manage on your own for supper tonight? I wasn't planning on coming home until we're done tonight."

It felt very strange to him to be making such considerations. Since he had left Lyon three years previously, he had been accountable to no one, and had long since fallen out of the habit of informing anyone of his comings and goings. Combeferre usually kept track, because it was in his nature to keep track of _everything_, but that was the extent of any attention anyone really paid to the minute details of his life.

"I should be perfectly alright," Éponine said, not meeting his eyes.

* * *

><p>"So how goes it with your <em>wife<em>?" Courfeyrac asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He had leapt on every opportunity since the wedding to bring up the subject of Éponine as frequently as possible to Enjolras. Being delightfully single and wanton himself, he had taken it upon himself to tease Enjolras for the fact that he had never been the latter and was very decidedly no longer the former.

Jean Prouvaire, by contrast had taken the opposite stance. He was quite delighted with the match and certain, though Enjolras and his wife were not really couple, that they would be good for each other. In consequence it was he, rather than Enjolras, who responded to Courfeyrac's attempt to get a rise out of the leader of the Amis.

"Don't bother the man," he spoke up sharply. "It is not any of our business anyway!"

Courfeyrac, however, was persistent. "No, Enjolras is our friend! Haven't friends a right to know things about each others lives?"

"No one wants to know the details of your personal life, Courfeyrac," Bahorel said. "Though I'm sure half the ladies in Paris would be glad to tell a tale!"

Courfeyrac, who was pleased with such a reputation and insulted that it should be so widely-known (not to mention the subject of a jest), hurled a crumpled-up ball of parchment in the direction of the taller man, missing him completely. Bahorel smirked at him.

"That's entirely beside the point!" Jehan protested in the midst of this. "If he doesn't want to talk about Éponine, he has every right to keep his business to himself."

"I find it ironic," Combeferre interjected, "that the only one who has had nothing whatsoever to say in the whole course of this debate is the one whom it most concerns."

"Thank you, _mon ami_," Enjolras said, sharing a grateful look with Combeferre. "As it happens, Courfeyrac, everything is perfectly alright. Éponine and I get along tolerably well, and that is really all there is to say."

"Have you written your father yet?" Combeferre asked.

"I did on Monday."

The medical student looked concerned. "What do you expect by way of a reply?"

Enjolras shrugged. "Who knows? I expect he'll come to chastise me somehow, but beyond that, who can say? To be perfectly frank I'm really trying not to think about it. Worrying about it will do me no good at all."

"Ah, a practical approach!" Bahorel commended.

"And with that said, I suggest that we abandon the subject of my private life. It is not likely to provide us with any particular advantage when the day comes for us to liberate France, and therefore is of no use here," Enjolras suggested.

Jehan nodded enthusiastically. "I agree wholeheartedly," he said. "And look, the rest of our company seems to have arrived, none too soon!"

He spoke true. A handful of additional workingmen were trailing in, accompanied by a surprisingly steady-eyed Grantaire, Joly and Laigle, and Feuilly and Marius who were deep in conversation. With the Amis and their hangers-on assembled in their entirety, Enjolras was grateful to escape any further interrogation by Courfeyrac in favor of much more important subjects of conversation. He got to his feet.

"Citizens!" he spoke up fiercely, projecting so that his powerful tenor voice reached the very farthest corners of the room, commanding the attention of every man present. "For many months we have been meeting here, airing our grievances against the crown, thinking ourselves the only men in Paris with the courage to speak so. This is not the case. As our friend Bahorel will shortly tell us, we are not alone in our thinking. We have known this, of course. No country can truly prosper under the rule of tyranny, and her citizens shall surely feel the discomfort of an ill-fitting regime. Until recently however, we were, to a man, under the impression that we were the only company yet ready to complete what our efforts in July began. Through his efforts, Bahorel has discovered this is not the case. Other conclaves such as this one are already forming, amorphous but plentiful, all across the city. We are not alone, _mes amis_!"

Enthusiastic applause greeted this pronouncement, and Bahorel got to his feet, ready to convey the details of his discoveries to the company. As the group shifted around in the natural course of such a crowd, a small gap opened up that had not been there before and Enjolras spied, through this gap, a flash of peacock blue fabric and dark red hair. He craned his neck as Bahorel began speaking, and his suspicions were confirmed. At the back of the group, near the wall, Éponine sat quietly watching the goings-on, the lone woman in a crowd of discontented men.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing here?" Enjolras asked. The meeting was over and for the most part everyone had left. He had caught Éponine attempting to slip out unnoticed, and apprehended her.<p>

She shrugged. "I was bored all by myself," she explained. "Coming to these meetings has become a habit, I guess."

He couldn't quite suppress the thought that she was probably more interested in seeing Marius regularly than anything else, but he did not give that suspicion a voice. "It isn't really a place for women," he said.

Éponine let out a bark of laughter. "It didn't seem to bother you before!"

"Well-"

"I haven't become a different person because I've taken a different surname!" she exclaimed. "I like being here. These meetings, your friends... they're the closest thing to proper friends I've _ever_ had, and I would miss that something awful."

Enjolras found that very difficult to counter. "Come, let us walk," he said. Together they left the cafe, and as they set off down the darkening street, he tried to come up with a way to explain why he was suddenly so unnerved by Éponine's presence at the meetings. To be perfectly honest, he suspected that Courfeyrac's incessant nagging had something to do with it.

Éponine, it seemed, was taking his silence as a refusal to discuss the subject further because after a few moments she said, in a distressed tone, "I thought you didn't- how did you put it? Oh, I thought you didn't believe in the subjugation of other people! What's wrong with me coming to the meetings?"

"No, there's nothing _wrong_ with it, exactly," he said hurriedly. "It's just... les Amis de l'ABC is serious business."

"I can be serious."

"Yes, I know. I just want you to know what you'd be getting yourself into. Do you really understand what we're meeting for?"

She did not meet his eyes; she bit her lip and shook her head abashedly. He had not expected anything else, having known that the only reason she was there in the first place was to look at Marius. This annoyed him for a wide variety of reasons.

"Very well," he said. "Perhaps I should explain it to you."

"I think I would like that."

Enjolras wondered how to begin. Where should he start and how should he say this so that Éponine would understand?

"France is suffering," he said. "You have experienced the worst examples of this firsthand. Starvation is common, taxes are absurd, and the class divide has never been so painfully obvious. The aristocracy live pampered lives, the common people starve, and the ever-dwindling number of bourgeois are caught between."

"And so you want to kill the king, right?" she asked, utterly innocent.

He looked at her startled. "I want no such thing!" he protested. "I'm sure there are men out there who would gladly commit regicide, but as for myself and the rest of the Amis, it is not Louis-Philippe that we have a quarrel with. I know very little of the king, but he seems an honest and just man from what evidence I have seen. It is the entire institution of the monarchy which we dispute. It is the throne, not the man, that we are against. That is not to say that we would not kill him, or any man who stands in the way of the natural progress of the human race toward freedom, if it became necessary. As for myself, though, I have listened enough to Combeferre that I have come to sympathize very strongly with his way of looking at it. A bloodless revolution would be infinitely preferable to a repetition of _la Terreur_."

Éponine nodded slowly. "I can understand that. It's a very noble way of looking at it. So, then, what is it you hope to accomplish with all this revolution?"

"We wish to better the lot of all people, so that children need never go hungry and men need never feel desperate. To do this, we hope to establish a republic, a free state with representative government."

"With a what government?"

"Representative government," he explained patiently. "This would mean that the people would be able to elect their own statesmen. The right to lead would not be granted by the artificial establishment we call 'birthright' but rather through the collective will of the people who are governed."

Éponine's eyes were huge, and she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him in the glow of the nearby lantern. "Who would get to choose?" she asked eagerly.

"Ideally, everyone."

"Even me?"

He would have laughed at her expression were she not so extraordinarily earnest. As it was, he gave her innocent question a very serious thinking-over. Jehan's plaintive protests on behalf of womankind echoed in his head and, confronted with Éponine, he found them rather more applicable than he had in the past. He said, "Perhaps. The question of woman's place in such a republic would be an idea for debate. It's a complex issue, and arguments of education and capability are called to question. But if the world were fair and all people given the equal rights that are theirs by nature, then yes, logic and reason say that women should be given their say in affairs as much as any other governed citizen."

Even Enjolras, with all his capacity for eloquence, would not have been able to put words to his wife's expression in that moment. She still had not resumed walking, and the look on her face was a strange blend of amazement and delight and confusion all at once.

"And this is what you're fighting for," she said softly, half a question and half an exclamation of wonderment.

He nodded.

She smiled broadly. "You and your friends are wonderful men," she said firmly.

So saying, she took his arm, and continued down the street. They arrived home and went about the routine of preparing for bed. Éponine did not say one entire word the entire rest of the evening except to bid him good-night, and the look on her face was one of deep contemplation.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** Because you just _know_ Éponine's a teensy bit of a feminist (I can categorically prove that this was part of Hugo's intention with her character, right down to the page number you should look up for the evidence). That said, I have something **Extremely Important** that you should pay attention to:

As many of you will already be aware, I've returned to university, with 19 credit hours to my name this semester. I'm going to be VERY busy. I'll try to keep updates semi-regular, but my education is really, REALLY important to me, so please be patient with me until May, okay?


	14. 13: Duty and Friendship

**A/N-** This chapter is specially dedicated to **Broadway and Books**, who has been very, very excited for this particular chapter for quite some time. I really hope I lived up to your expectations! Once again, as I did with the prologue, I'll be referring to the Enjolrai by their first names in order to avoid confusion. (Of course, you're getting rather used to that, as Éponine seems to have just taken to calling him Antoine anyway...)

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><p><em>Chapter 13<br>December 20th, 1830_

Éponine was curled up in a chair before the fire. She had a needle and her husband's ripped jacket in her hands, but she was not sewing. Instead she was staring at Antoine and trying not to make it obvious that she was watching him.

He was seated across the room at the table, bent low over a book. He had declared upon arriving home that he had no choice- he was going to have to get caught up on his schoolwork before he could with good conscience go to the Musain, and since then he had been buried in a veritable mountain of parchment. His hair was tied back as usual, but one golden lock kept coming loose and falling into his eyes. He would push it irritatedly back behind his ear, but within a few minutes it was right back in his face again.

Antoine was a puzzle to her. For as long as she'd known him, she had seen him from a distance as someone cold and worlds away from her. In the week since their wedding, however, she had caught glimpses of other sides of him. She had observed the way he was with his friends, behaving almost as a benevolent elder brother to them all. She had listened to him speak about his beliefs- _really_ listened rather than just passing over it as background noise to Marius's voice- and found unexpected comfort in the knowledge that there were men in the world who thought such things. He was a severe person by nature, but there was a gentleness and a warmth to that severity that she had difficulty reconciling with what she had thought of him before. It was a thorough contradiction, but she thought she understood now what Grantaire meant when he called him a man of fire and ice.

She had never met anyone like him before. His faith in his cause was as intense as the most devout religious fervor she had ever witnessed. He was strict with himself and she was witnessing firsthand that his almost legendary chastity was not fictitious. A man as handsome as he was, who had surely spent his adolescence swarmed with pretty women trying to catch his eye, was at risk of becoming a philanderer and a libertine. Antoine, however, was a naturally pure soul.

He made Éponine feel filthy in comparison.

She thought of Montparnasse and knew that, had he and Antoine been in each others' place, she would not have been left to go to sleep in peace each night. Montparnasse would not have cared that this marriage was just a pretense; he would have considered it his right to have her anyway. Admittedly, Montparnasse had had the privilege before, but even if that had not happened he would have had his way with her regardless. Antoine, by contrast, did not even seem to consider such a thing a possibility.

Éponine simply could not understand him. He was predictable in his own way, but he still broke every rule about people she had ever learned.

He glanced up and caught her watching him. Éponine looked away rapidly from his blue-eyed gaze, sticking her needle rapidly into the material in her hands, feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment and stabbing her finger in the process.

At that moment a loud and impatient knocking sounded outside. Before either of them could move, the door burst open and a Olivier Enjolras strode into the apartment. Éponine had never seen the man before in her life, but she recognized him immediately. He was the mirror of his son, with the exception of the color of their eyes; where the son's were blue, the father's were hazel, and they were presently furious. He fairly radiated frigid anger, his eyes landing first on Éponine sitting in the chair before he turned to face his son, who had risen to his feet.

"Antoine, what in God's name have you _done_?" Olivier shouted. Gone was the passive frustration of the well-bred gentleman. Olivier had passed his breaking point and it showed. His hair was disheveled and the look he had fixed on his son seemed fit to boil water. He began pacing back and forth across the apartment, the very picture of anxiety and rage, gesticulating wildly as he spoke thus:

"When we received your letter, I thought surely you were joking. My son would never do such a thing, I thought. He may be backwards in his ideas, but he understands duty and fealty. This is some strange game he and his friends have elected to play on his poor father. Still, your mother was so upset that in order to appease her, I traveled to Paris with all possible haste, quite sure that I would be able to return and tell her that all was well. And what do I find? I find that you really _have_ got yourself a little harlot!" He did not even glance at Éponine as he threw a finger in her direction. "I repeat, Antoine: _what have you done_?"

Antoine contrasted his father's fit of temper with a cool resolve. "I have done as my heart and conscience commanded me to," he replied evenly, "Which is all I have ever done, Father. I believe it was you yourself who taught me the value of conducting myself in such a manner."

"Insolent child!" Olivier spat.

"I am no longer a child, I am a man grown. I am no longer yours to do with as you wish," Antoine said.

His father threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of supreme irritation. "And family loyalty, the duty of a son, means nought to a grown man, then?" he bit out. "Fine then! You wish, in all your youthful arrogance, to rebel against your father as much as you do against the crown? Very well, what do I care? But think of your _maman_!"

Antoine sighed. It seemed to Éponine that he was used to hearing this refrain.

Olivier glared at him. "Do not look at me like that, boy! You know how delicate your mother is! The day we received your letter, she took to her bed and to the best of my knowledge has not risen since!"

"It is your place to look after your own wife's nerves, not mine," Antoine replied.

"You would shame and upset your own mother so?"

"I have said time and again that you would serve her better by not allowing her to make such dramatics out of every inconvenient situation."

"Fine then, if you have no love for your family, surely you understand the practicalities! The engagement was all arranged. Have you any idea how long the match between yourself and Mlle. Guillory has been in the making?"

"I'm quite certain Ciel Guillory and yourself have been planning it since our infancy. But had you asked me then, I would have refused without hesitation, just as I would have refused at any time since then. Hyacinthe and I would be without a doubt the most incompatible couple ever to be wed. It is exceptionally fortunate for both of us, I think, that I have circumvented you, Father."

Olivier stopped in his pacing and whirled to face his son. "You foolish, shameless, insensitive boy! The girl is in love with you and always has been!"

"And her childish fancy is reason enough to surrender my autonomy, is it?" Antoine said with a humorless, dark little chuckle.

"It seems to me you've done so just the same, but to some slut of a laundress you found on the street rather than a lady of your own breeding! God in heaven, Antoine, she isn't even pretty! What possessed you to do such a thing?"

Antoine raised his chin. "I'll thank you not to insult my wife," he responded coldly, and now he was beginning to look angry as well.

Olivier let out a slightly hysterical bark of laughter. "You're really going to call this gutter trash your wife?"

If he had looked angry before, now he was very obviously filled with that polite, cold fury that was particularly his. "She is _not_ trash. She is a woman, a respectable woman, and her name is Madame Éponine Enjolras. And to be perfectly frank, my wife is ten times the woman yours is."

Olivier did not even give his son time to react. He struck him hard across the left cheek with the back of his hand. Antoine stumbled from the force of the blow.

Recovering himself, he straightened up to look his father straight in the eyes, facing the older man's fury.

"You ungrateful little fool!" Olivier shouted. "How _dare_ you-!"

"STOP!"

It was Éponine who had cried out. Since Olivier had entered the apartment she had been attempting to make herself invisible where she sat, a reflexive behavior she had built up over many years in automatic response to an angry father. Now, however, she was on her feet. Her needle and thread were abandoned on the floor, she had drawn herself up to her full and not inconsiderable height, and her dark eyes were flashing with a fierce defensive fury neither of the men before her could have imagined she possessed. Quick as a flash she was standing at Antoine's side, fixing Olivier with a steely glare.

"How dare he?" she asked hotly. "How dare _you_? You would come into our home and insult your son's sense, judgment, and integrity? Antoine is one of the kindest, noblest men I have ever been lucky enough to meet, and I am _not_ going to sit idly by and watch you insult him. I will _not_!"

She was an impressive figure in that moment, and no amount of lavender and lace could counteract the ferocity that was spoken in every line of her figure and every detail of her expression. It was much the same effect as when an ordinarily docile cat suddenly arches its back, throws out its claws, and hisses. What once was unremarkable is suddenly terrifying. For just a few minutes, Éponine was not ugly or coarse or common. She was magnificent. Antoine felt in awe of her. Olivier was shocked out of his blind fury.

"Madame," he said coldly. "I will ask you to not interfere in my business with my son."

"Any business of Antoine's is mine as well," she said firmly. "I don't know you, Monsieur, and you don't know me, but you had better understand that I will not stand by and let you thoroughly insult someone I care for. Say what you like about me. I don't mind. Anything you have to say, I've probably heard before. But you will not say one word more to _him_ unless you can be civil!"

Olivier narrowed his eyes, but Éponine's look clearly allowed no margin for argument. He looked instead to his son. "You have brought shame on our family name, Antoine. Understand that it is only for your mother's sake that I do not renounce you this instant," he said. "I fear it would be too much for her to bear on top of your disorderly conduct."

Éponine's glare darkened still further, and Olivier seemed to take this as his cue to leave.

"I will see myself out, I think."

He turned on his heel and marched to the door, which they all realized at the same moment had been left open in the wake of his stormy entrance. In the doorway he turned and looked at his son. "Enjoy the company of your little tart, Antoine. I hope she can fill up the time you will not be spending with your family." And with these bitter words, he was gone, pulling the door to behind him.

Éponine glared at the closed door for a few seconds for good measure, then turned to glance at Enjolras. His expression was of a very precise calm, but she could see the tightness in his jaw and the disorientation in his eyes.

She was not very good at compassion or empathy, but in that instant her heart went out to her husband. Open hostility between family members was something she understood far too well, and from the look he probably thought he was hiding rather successfully, Enjolras was just experiencing this for the first time. It was one thing for there to be hard feelings between family members, but when that turned to outright rejection it was painful. It was better, she thought, to deal with the physical consequences and let him deal with the emotional fallout privately. As much as she wanted to ask what he was feeling, she knew enough of men- and of him in particular- to know that it would not accomplish much.

She touched his jaw gently. "You're swelling up," she said softly. "Here, let me look at it." She examined the place where Olivier had hit him, clucking her tongue sympathetically. "He was wearing a ring, I think. You've got a little cut- just there. He didn't catch you in the eye at all, did he?"

He shook his head.

"Small favors," she remarked, still in the same quiet tone. "You're bleeding a little."

"It's alright," he said.

"Let me tend to it," she said. "It won't take but a minute to clean it up. It would be a shame to scar up your pretty face."

This last was said with a hint of teasing present in her eyes, enough to lift the mood without feeling forced. It seemed to work, because a little of the tension left his shoulders and the corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly.

She made him sit down on the divan, then retrieved a pan from the kitchen. This she carried to the window and, throwing up the sash, filled it with snow from the windowsill. While the snow was melting, she fetched a clean cloth, which she proceeded to soak in the cold water she had made. She wrung the excess water from the cloth and raised it to his swelling cheek. Gently, she wiped away the blood from his porcelain skin. He watched her intently, and they did not speak.

Once the cut was clean, she said, "It's not very deep. Just a little nick. But things around the head and face always bleed more."

"Yes, I know."

She dipped the cloth a second time in the clean water, and folded it over into a little compress. "Here," she said, handing it to him. "Press that to your cheek. The cold will help take the swelling down. You're likely to have an impressive bruise, but it won't hurt as much."

He did as he was told without comment, which Éponine was sure had to be a first.

For a few minutes they were quiet, both of them trying to process what had just happened. Éponine watched him as intently as she had earlier, studying the tiny changes in his expression and trying to guess unsuccessfully what he was thinking. He seemed lost in thought. Despondent was not the word- he was much too strong for that. However, despite his stillness, he bore a fretful air.

After some time, Éponine said, "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve all that."

"It is my father all over," he replied bitterly. "He has always had pretensions to rival those of the English gentry. This comes as no real surprise."

"Still. I guess sometimes the wealthy aren't any better behaved than the poor, are they?"

"That should tell you something, then," Enjolras said in a rueful tone. Then he looked intently at her, saying, "You know, I think that was the first time I've ever seen you really, properly angry."

She gave him a sideways glance. "What of it?"

"You're a little bit terrifying."

At this, she laughed. "I strike fear into the hearts of marauders and thieves!" she proclaimed teasingly. "No, really. You think I'm jesting, but just ask any of my father's comrades!" She was pleased to have drawn out a smile from him again. He looked very handsome when he smiled.

Éponine fell quiet again for a few moments, apparently debating her next words carefully. Eventually she plucked up the courage to ask, "Antoine... about what you said..."

"Yes?"

"Did you mean that? When you said that I was- that I was a better woman than your mother, I mean?"

He looked at her very earnestly. "Yes," he said firmly. "I did. I love my mother, do not doubt that. Does any son have a choice otherwise? However, my mother has always been very, shall we say, weak-willed. She belongs to a certain class of women who have never been vexed or challenged in the whole course of their lives, and to make matters worse she considers herself nervous. She has never held a conviction in her life, unless it be that sea air is very good for her constitution. I love her, as a son should, but I cannot respect her. You, on the other hand, I respect a great deal. Despite the differences in education and circumstance, I would consider you by far the superior woman."

Éponine, completely overwhelmed, threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. This reaction astonished Enjolras, until he heard her say, in a very quiet voice, "That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Feeling very uncomfortable, he put his arm gingerly around her. They stayed like that for several minutes, both of them deep in unnerved reflection.

Enjolras looked down at the little head of red hair that had leaned up against his shoulder. He really did care about her, he realized. How that had happened, he wasn't quite sure. To be perfectly frank, the best he had hoped for in this sham marriage was to avoid despising her. To actually consider her, or any woman, a _friend_ had been so far beyond his experiences with the opposite gender that it had never even crossed his mind.

He supposed the simple fact of their proximity made it necessary to cultivate a certain affection for the other. It was not necessary to harbor romantic feelings in order to care for someone and to share a life, after all. Or perhaps, he mused, feeling philosophical, it was the intervention of a higher power. They had pledged themselves to each other before God. It was only natural that he should be inspired to care about his partner, whatever form that affection might take. A marriage built on friendship and respect was a much healthier relationship, in his eyes, than many of the marriages he had witnessed in his lifetime.

For her part, Éponine still could not seem to make anything at all of her husband. Everything she had ever assumed about the standoffish leader of the Amis was being torn down, and replaced with a very different picture of Antoine Enjolras. She had been so afraid that she was making the same mistake her mother had, settling on the man who would have her rather than waiting on the man she could truly love, but a life as Madame Enjolras wasn't really so bad after all. If there was anything in the world that was worth giving up Marius, this was probably it. Musichetta had been right. Antoine would be good to her, which was better than she'd had in years.

"Antoine?"

"Hm?"

"We're going to be great friends, aren't we?"

"Yes, Éponine, I think we are."

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><p><strong>AN-** "I'm not the daughter of a dog, I'm the daughter of a wolf. There are six of you, what's that to me? You're men? Well, I'm a woman. I'm not afraid of you, not one bit."  
>^<em>This<em> is why I love Éponine so much. She is _not_ taking shit, not from anybody. Guess which part of the book I just read (for about the ten thousandth time)... ;) Originally this chapter was going to go very differently but suddenly I realized, "Wait a second- this is_ Éponine_ we're dealing with! She's not just going to sit quietly in the other room and let this go down without her!"

And then everything did a total 180, and this is the result. I feel like the ending is über-sappy, but that's just what happens when you start throwing heavy emotions around in a confined space! And let's face it, even in canon Éponine tends to get mushy after an emotional upset.


	15. 14: New Year's Eve

**A/N-** Yeah, I skipped Christmas. So sue me. There just wasn't a whole lot to interest regarding Christmastime in Paris, to be perfectly honest. Or maybe it's that I literally _just_ wrote Christmas, 1830 in CoC and I just didn't feel like doing it twice in less than three weeks? There's a _reason_ it only comes once a year... Whatever. New Years' is more fun, anyway! At least insofar as French traditions serve my evil purposes... I feel like when both culture and historical fact fall into line with your plans, that's like the cosmos telling you it's okay to love E et E. ~_^

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><p><em>Chapter 14<br>December 31st, 1830_

Another few weeks slipped away in much the same manner as the previous ones, and if there were any changes, they were intangible. Enjolras, as Éponine had predicted, spent several days walking around with a large purplish bruise across his cheek where his father had struck him. None of the Amis chose to comment on this, which was suspicious, but whatever the reason, Enjolras was grateful for their silence. He did not particularly want to discuss what had transpired with anyone. If Combeferre had asked he would have explained, but he felt that it was quite bad enough that Éponine, who was the cause of it, had witnessed the argument.

As for Éponine, she spent her days much as she had before Olivier Enjolras's unwelcome intrusion. She had moved on from Descartes and was now struggling through an immense book that purported to be a complete history of France. This she did not find as abstruse as the metaphysical musings of the philosopher-mathematician, but not nearly as interesting.

She continued to conceal this habit from her husband. She wasn't sure why. _Antoine is a good man_, she told herself, _he won't try to stop you from reading_. But years of intellectual repression held sway, and the daughter who had hid as much of her cleverness as she could from her father in self-defense became the wife who pretended, by lie of omission, to ignorance.

New Year's Eve arrived, and with it all the gaiety and festive atmosphere one might expect. Courfeyrac hosted a large number of his friends in honor of _le Réveillon de Saint-Sylvestre_, primarily the Amis and their mistresses. Apparently this had been a tradition for as long as Courfeyrac had been friends with Combeferre and Bahorel, which had now been expanded to include all of the Amis. He had taken it upon himself to fill his flat with mistletoe, and a roaring fire had been built up in the fireplace, and the whole party was full of an atmosphere of _fraternité_ and holiday cheer.

Enjolras had not originally intended to go, but Éponine had said quite plainly that she was going one way or the other and so he found himself tagging along after her. As was usually the case in these situations, he was glad he had come after all. He was not very used to spending a great deal of time socializing for its own sake, but invariably he found once he was actually in the middle of it that he enjoyed the company of his friends even when not in the midst of talk of the coming revolution.

Éponine had started the evening keeping company with Musichetta, whom she had not seen since the day of her wedding and whom she was surprised to find she missed. The pair complemented each other well. Éponine had a sweetness and free-spirited charm to her that hard living had all but destroyed, but under the influence of Musichetta's laughter and bubbly personality, something much closer to her natural temperament was drawn out from behind her guarded cynicism. Musichetta and her flights of fancy, by contrast, were checked by Éponine's practical-minded wit and teasing.

"The pair of you together could make even the National Guard turn tail and run!" Marius joked, overhearing their conversation at a moment when they were playfully eviscerating Joly over his latest bout of hypochondriatic nerves. "How could they stand their ground against two ladies of such rapier wit?"

Éponine pushed at his shoulder playfully. At this point, Musichetta found it in her best interests to drag Joly to the nearest mistletoe-bedecked corner in order to kiss him better.

Marius smiled at her, and she felt a flutter of butterflies in her stomach at the sight. She loved Marius's smile. He might not have Antoine's beautiful blue eyes, but he had such a sweet smile. That was what had first made her look at him, actually. He had smiled at her- at _her_, who was little more than a gamine!- and that kind look had captivated her.

"And how are you, 'Ponine? I've hardly seen you in weeks!" he said, sitting down beside her.

She laughed. "You've seen me practically all the time at the cafe!"

"Yes, but you're not there for every meeting, and when you are you hardly talk to me!"

"That's because I'm really _listening_ to what your friends are saying," she responded, a little put out. Oughtn't he be happy that she was taking an interest in the things that were important to him?

"Didn't you listen before? You've been coming to the Musain with me for ages!"

_With you! Because of you!_ she screamed at him in her head. _All for you!_

But he wouldn't know that, of course. "It's different now, though," she said, not really sure how to explain. "I... Antoine has explained so much of what you're all doing, and it all makes more sense to me now."

It was Marius's turn to chuckle. "Oh, is that it? Now that you're married to our fearless leader, you care as fiercely as he does, then?"

"Hardly!" she protested lightly. "I just understand better now is all."

Marius accepted that without comment. Then, after a short spell of companionable silence, he asked, "So... how goes it with Enjolras, then? You get along, I hope?"

Éponine nodded. "Antoine is very good to me. I did not really expect that."

Marius looked at her very earnestly and said, "I'm glad to hear that. I know it was me who first suggested this idea of the two of you marrying, but once it was all decided upon, I confess... well, I confess I had some doubts."

"Like what?"

"It seemed so brilliant when I first dreamed it up. He'd be able to get out from under his father's thumb, and you'd be off the street. It seemed like such a good idea. But then it seemed to me that the pair of you are both such strong personalities that it couldn't possibly end well. You would surely wind up hating each other."

"Hardly!" Éponine protested.

"I would hate to think that it was me that pressured you into rushing into something like that," Marius persisted. "If you were miserable, and it were my fault... I would hate it if you resented me, 'Ponine!"

"I could never resent you," she said firmly, laying a hand on his arm to reassure him (and maybe a little bit just to be able to touch him). Then, more reflectively, she added, "And I don't think I could hate Antoine, either. You were right- he's one of the best men I've ever known. You're the only one better."

Marius blushed. "That's not true at all, 'Ponine! I'm not that good," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

She shrugged. "Say what you will, I think it's true."

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><p>Across the room, Enjolras was watching this tableau. As Éponine rested her hand on the young man's arm, Enjolras felt a surge of annoyance. Could she not lay her obsession with Marius to rest? What on earth about Pontmercy appealed to her so, anyway? He was a good sort, a bit of a dreamer but brave, but really, why was she so fixated on him?<p>

"You know, _mon ami_, you could at least try to stop staring at your wife long enough to listen to me," Combeferre said good-naturedly.

Enjolras looked away from Éponine and Marius quickly. "I was not staring," he retorted.

"You were," Combeferre said. "Come now, what's bothering you?"

Enjolras shrugged as a sort of delaying tactic. What, precisely, was bothering him? "It is not important," he said firmly. "I find her continued infatuation with Marius to be rather irritating, that's all."

"Jealous?" Combeferre asked, but it was plain from his tone that he did not believe it. Enjolras was glad. Any of his other friends would have tried to deliberately misconstrue his thoughts and actions to mean that he had feelings of a romantic nature for Éponine. Combeferre might tease, but he knew Enjolras well enough to know how unlikely that was, and would leave it at that.

"Not in the slightest," Enjolras replied.

Combeferre grinned, then asked, "In all seriousness, Enjolras, things are well? You and Éponine seem to get along nicely enough."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. We are friends. It is a strange arrangement, to be sure, but she is good company." He glanced at Éponine, who was still fawning over Marius, and repressed the urge to sigh in annoyance. "I had not expected that. I do not know what I thought she would be, but I know it certainly was not what she is!" He took care to note that none of the other Amis were within hearing distance, then said, "She yelled at my father."

Combeferre nodded. "Yes, I overheard."

Enjolras looked at him shrewdly. "So you're the reason no one bothered to comment on my rather visible souvenir from that encounter, then?"

"Quite correct. I assumed you would rather it not be discussed, and took matters into my own hands. You don't mind, I hope?"

"Certainly not. I'm grateful you took the liberty, as it saves me the trouble!" This laid to rest, Enjolras returned to his original point. "François, she shouted at my _father_. No one shouts at my father. Not even _I_ shout at my father, and I am perhaps the only person who's ever had the nerve to disagree with him in the whole course of his life!"

"Yes, I know," Combeferre replied. "It was rather dramatic."

"She's an unusual girl," Enjolras said quietly. "It saddens me that she was forced so young into such a bitter life, for no fault of her own. She has such remarkable spirit."

"Is it not possible, though, that this is in fact a direct result of the conditions she has been living in?"

Enjolras mulled that over. "No, I do not think so. Tempering in the fire may fortify the rod, but the wood was strong to begin with. Certainly one may argue that her experiences have cultivated certain aspects of her self, but these things do not appear out of nowhere. There are some qualities that are innate."

Combeferre smiled. "You admire her a great deal, don't you?" Enjolras gave him a look, and Combeferre was quick to amend, "No, I know you too well to imagine you to be at risk of falling in love with the girl, but you admire her nonetheless."

"Yes. She is the very definition of a rough diamond, I think."

"Potential may be found in the most unlikely places," Combeferre mused. "Such is the maxim of the schoolmaster, and perhaps it ought to be considered more closely outside the classroom as well."

Enjolras nodded. "That is the principle reason why the monarchy must be toppled," he said seriously. "Seeds have been scattered throughout the gutters of Paris, but no rose can bloom with the shadow of a tyrant blotting out the light of the sun. Éponine is starting to find her way, but how many more like her are there? How many good girls, driven to misery and hunger and prostitution and God only knows what other privations, populate this city alone?"

"There is no need to say these things to _me_," Combeferre said, a hint of amusement crossing his features. "I know them as well as you do, _mon ami_."

From there, their conversation turned to lighter subjects, lighter still once Jehan tore himself away from the pretty young lady he was courting and whom he had brought along with him for the evening.

The evening crept on pleasantly. Wine was plentiful and the conversation, as usual in the close-knit band of friends, was excellent. Around eleven o'clock, Musichetta and Bahorel's lady-friend discovered Courfeyrac's piano, at which point nothing could divert the two ladies from entertaining the entire company with their playing and singing. A few of the men were coaxed into joining them for duets, notably Grantaire, who despite the tremendous amounts of alcohol he consumed regularly had managed to retain a rather fine singing voice. It was, as such performances tended to be, a bizarre blend of the latest popular arias as well as songs from the _comédie en vaudeville_, much to the amusement of those who chose to keep silent and listen.

As the much-anticipated hour of midnight drew nearer, however, Courfeyrac resumed a line of thinking that had become a bit of a theme with him and which was most unwelcome to Enjolras.

"Come to think of it," he said to his blond friend with a deceptively innocent air, "I've seen every man in the room take a turn under the mistletoe."

"Yes. Even Grantaire saw fit to steal a kiss from Musichetta!" Joly interjected, glaring daggers at the shamelessly-grinning drunkard. Musichetta, for her part, had the grace to blush.

"Indeed, everyone!" Courfeyrac proclaimed, and Enjolras, who had anticipated just such an event, cringed inwardly. "Everyone except... you, Enjolras!"

Not for the first time, Enjolras wondered if it were Courfeyrac's mission in life to deliberately make him miserable. Really, he knew that Courfeyrac was a splendid fellow but it was times like this, when his joviality and cleverness exceeded his good sense, that he found himself wondering why he tolerated the other man.

"The only married man in the room cannot be the only man who fails to make use of the mistletoe, not when I took such great care to acquire it!" Courfeyrac said gleefully.

Bahorel, who evidently had decided the most entertainment could be gleaned from becoming Courfeyrac's accomplice in this mischief, grabbed Enjolras by the elbow. Before he could react, he had been pulled from where he was standing and planted firmly next to Éponine, who was most unfortunately placed rather near a sprig of the very plant which Enjolras was quickly developing a distinct antipathy towards.

"Oh, leave them alone," Jehan said, but it sounded a little half-hearted.

"Hush, you!" his lady-friend said playfully. "A man has a duty to kiss his wife, and often!"

This prompted a brief and very silly debate between these two, which served as a distraction for a handful of the Amis, who joined in the teasing of Jehan with gusto.

Courfeyrac, however, could not be dissuaded. "Come, you two! It is New Year's Eve! Whatever you may say, it's customary!"

Enjolras let out a resigned sigh and glanced at Éponine. She gave him a shrug and a look that said quite clearly, _we may as well humor him, or he'll never leave us alone_. Unfortunately, Enjolras knew this was probably true. He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Now that really is pathetic," Marius teased. Éponine's eyes shot away from her husband to latch onto the young Baron Pontmercy. "Is that _really_ the best you can do, Enjolras?"

Enjolras was standing close enough to catch the slight narrowing of her eyes, the squaring of her shoulders. He knew the look she got when she had accepted a challenge she couldn't back down from; at the sight of it on her face now, he felt positively unnerved. This could not end well.

Éponine turned her eyes very deliberately back to his own, fixed him in that assertive dark gaze, and before he had a chance to diffuse the situation, she had placed her hands along the sides of his face, drawn his mouth down to hers, and kissed him very decidedly and thoroughly. It was, Enjolras thought dazedly, a very different experience from that hesitant first kiss at their wedding. That had been nervous and reluctant on both ends, not merely his own. This, though, was anything but- at least on Éponine's end of things. As she plied his lips with her own, it became very apparent that she knew precisely what she was doing. The composure which Courfeyrac's teasing had frayed was well and thoroughly done in by Éponine's attentions.

And then it was over with. Éponine pulled back, winked conspiratorially at him, threw a self-satisfied glance at Marius, and walked away.

Enjolras stared after her, utterly thrown.

Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder, smirking. "Careful, _mon ami_, that you don't leave your jaw sitting on the floor where someone might trip over it."

Enjolras couldn't help feeling that he might have just acted as the unwitting pawn in his wife's attempt to make Marius jealous.

* * *

><p>Miles away, on the opposite side of the city, a very different sort of celebration of the new year was taking place.<p>

Montparnasse did up his trousers, slipped a few coins into the girl's outstretched hand, and went his way, wholly unsatisfied. Whores were good, he supposed, but they never put up much of a fight. Even when he told them that was what he wanted, it was still hollow. He knew all too well that he was paying the girl to do exactly what he pleased; she would have done just as well if he told her to just lie there. There was no victory in such a fight. He liked the feeling of pursuit, of desperation, which he had only ever gotten from one source: Éponine Thenardier.

He hadn't seen the girl in weeks, maybe months, and despite himself he actually rather missed her. He wandered in the direction of the Gorbeau house, thinking he might be able to find out where she'd scuttled off to now.

Upon arriving outside the tenement however, he heard raised voices, male and female, echoing down from the broken window of the Thenardiers' apartment. He smiled sardonically to himself. Anytime money got the least bit tight (well, tighter than usual), the Thenardiess would start grumbling and sooner or later it devolved into a full-scale argument which only avoided coming to blows because not even Thenardier was fool enough to strike a woman who so far outclassed him in height, weight, and strength.

Underneath the bellowing of the man and lady of the house, a quieter sound could be heard.

Montparnasse pricked up his ears and followed the soft noise to the alleyway behind the Gorbeau house, where he discovered the shivering little bundle of rags that was Azelma Thenardier, sobbing into her arms and trying to be quiet about it. Briefly, he wondered if Azelma was as good in the sack as her sister, but disregarded that notion. He had no interest whatsoever in the other Thenardier girl. Her figure might be far better than her sister's, but she wasn't as pretty and she was so easily led... no, there was no fight in Azelma whatsoever. No challenge.

Still, she could be of use to him in another way.

"'Zelma," he hissed.

She looked up at him, those big green eyes gleaming in what little light filtered into the alley. "'Parnasse," she said, and her tearstained face broke out into a smile, showing off her yellowing teeth.

He reached out a hand to her and pulled her to her feet. "Where's your sister?" he asked.

Her happy expression fell a little. "How should I know?" she mumbled.

"Come on, 'Zelma," he whined, in a tone he knew very well she wouldn't be able to resist. He took a step closer to her; she took a step back, so that she was leaning against the brick wall. "She's your sister. Surely you know where she's gone to."

She shrugged. "Some handsome fellow came after her a few weeks back. I don't know anything else."

Montparnasse took another step closer, placing his palms against the stones on either side of her, framing her body between his two arms. "What fellow?"

"I dunno. Some sort of student, I guess."

"Some bourgeois prat decided to keep himself a private whore, then?"

Azelma shook her head. "'Ponine's better than that," she protested.

"Yes," he said lasciviously, entendre dripping from every syllable. "Yes she is."

Azelma shuddered, but he saw something reluctantly kindled in her eyes and he grinned. He leaned in closer to her, so close their bodies were almost touching. He could feel the heat from her body radiating in the cold December air, could see her pupils dilate and her breath jump in her throat.

"Find her for me," he whispered.

"What?"

"Find her for me," he said again, closing another few inches of space between them.

"What will you give me?" she asked, looking closely into his eyes.

He smirked, and leaned in so close his lips just touched against hers. He felt her try to kiss him, but his mouth brushed right past, skimming her cheek until his lips were right beside her ear. "I see how you watch me, 'Zelma," he whispered seductively. "I see you looking at me. You see me with your sister, and you wish you were in her place, don't you?" He felt her nod helplessly, heard her breathing deepen in response to his effectively intimate tone. "You want me to kiss you like I've kissed her." He pressed his lips in a line down her neck, tasting her pulse point, taking perverse pleasure in being able to draw such a response from her so easily. "You want me the way she's had me." He nipped gently at the place where his lips had just rested, and heard her gasp softly.

Abruptly, he pulled away in one fluid motion, leaving her lurching after him to no avail. "Find her for me, and I just might give you what you want!" he said, smirking at her.

He turned and walked to the mouth of the alley. Then he turned back and, with a nod in the direction of their window, said, "You may as well start looking for her now. It doesn't sound like they're like they're going to quit screaming anytime soon." And then he was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** I'd like to formally apologize for this chapter being so late. This is what college does to me. I tried to make up for it with a bit of a longer chapter. Also, I usually like to take a kinder perspective on 'Parnasse because I really do like the boy. In this fic, though, he kind of went Evil Supervillain on me and I wasn't too motivated to stop him. Therefore, you're going to have to deal with evil!Montparnasse.


	16. 15: Winters Past and Present

**A/N-** Alright, so, for quite some time now I'm going to be giving our favorite pair a break. That's not to say there won't be some juicy and wonderful tidbits for you (trust me, there will be), but I'm giving them time to get to know each other in order to avoid the all-too-prevalent OOC!Enjolras. So brace yourself... for the attack of the sub-plots (and I have lots of them up my sleeve)!

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><p><em>Chapter 15<br>January 4th, 1831_

Classes at the university resumed on the third of January, after a short recess in honor of the holiday, and Éponine found herself once again left to her own devices. She felt restless, but was not inclined to go out as the temperature outside was plummeting, if the progressive spread of frost across the windowpane was any indication. As usual, she turned to Enjolras's bookshelf for comfort. If her body could not run and be free, then at least her mind could fly away.

She pulled down her immense tome on the history of France and curled up in front of the fire. She opened the book to the page she had marked and resumed where she had left off, somewhere in the middle years of the Hundred Years War.

Once she had well and truly settled into her reading, she became wholly oblivious to everything around her. She did not notice the heavy snowfall that began about mid-morning, and she did not notice the darkening of the sky as still more woolly, snow-laden clouds advanced west over the city. In fact, she only abandoned her book once, and that was only because the fire burned so low that she was obliged to go downstairs to ask the concierge for a further supply of fuel, or risk losing her primary heat source. Other than this, she was wholly absorbed in the rather fascinating tale of France's struggle to throw out her English invaders. Some names and dates were familiar, and others entirely new to her, but she was captivated by the series of dramatic conflicts that had unfolded centuries before her birth.

As she read, she could almost understand her husband's passion for his country. The men and women of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries had so fiercely defended France, again and again when the need arose. How could anyone do less, when the call came? It was inspiring and fascinating at once.

Just after one o'clock, the voices of two young men could be heard in the hall, but Éponine was so intent on the page before her that she did not hear. A moment later, the door to the apartment opened and Enjolras, soaked through, entered the apartment.

She jumped in surprise, and the book fell from her lap to the floor. Quickly she scrambled after it, trying to pick it up and conceal it before he could see what she was doing, but it did her no good.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding tired but a little amused, slinging his books onto the table and unwinding his damp scarf from around his neck.

Éponine, who had successfully retrieved the volume, straightened up and squared her shoulders. She met his gaze firmly, just daring him to challenge her. "Reading," she said.

"You can read?" he asked, sounding surprised.

Éponine decided she should very much take offense at this. "Of course I can read!" she said indignantly. "I _told_ you I'm not just gutter trash, didn't I? I _told_ you I was raised to be better... or at least, my _maman_ thought I ought to be! She taught me when I was just a girl."

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding surprised by her outburst. "I ought not have assumed-"

"No, you shouldn't have," she said.

He hung his coat up and crossed to her side. He attempted to take the book from her hands and she instinctively jerked it back. He stared at her.

"You aren't going to stop me,Antoine, " she said fiercely, for a moment seeing a vision her father where her husband stood. "You can't make me quit reading!"

"Éponine, why would I want to stop you?" he asked, genuinely confused.

She shook her head, clutching the heavy book closer to her chest. "I... I... don't know," she mumbled, already beginning to feel ashamed of her outburst.

"I would have thought you knew me better than that, at least," he continued. "I would never stand in the way of someone attempting to broaden his or her mind."

Éponine felt herself blush. "I'm sorry," she said. "I keep expecting you to be like my papa, even though I know you wouldn't ever... You're so different than the sort of people I'm used to, you see. You're... good."

Enjolras was looking at her with an expression of pity and puzzlement. "Anything you want to read is yours," he said sincerely, gesturing to his bookshelf. "You need not hide it." He took the volume from her, and this time she let him have it. He opened to the page she had marked, frowning at the places where she had dog-eared the pages. His eyebrows went up as he took note of her place in the book, and a sudden thought seemed to occur to him. "How long has this been going on, anyway?"

She shrugged. "Ever since we've been married," she replied. "I moved on to this after I finished with that _Meditations Metaphysiques_ by the Descartes fellow."

"You read Descartes?" Enjolras asked, quite plainly surprised.

"Yes."

"And you understood him?"

"Not all of it, but I think I caught the general idea. It was easier to read than all of Marius's old lawbooks, that's for certain!"

He gave her a look that she could not interpret for the life of her, shaking his head in amazement. "You are a very strange girl, Éponine."

She chuckled. "That makes two of us, then. Why are you home so early, anyway?"

Enjolras sighed, running a hand through his blond locks, which she now noticed were damp. "It's snowing rather heavily outside," he said. "Another few hours of this and the roads are likely to be impassable. Classes were cancelled and the Sorbonne is closed until further notice."

Éponine glanced at the window in amazement. "Well it _is_ snowing, isn't it!" she exclaimed. "I didn't even notice!"

Somehow, Enjolras wasn't surprised by that.

* * *

><p>Azelma shivered. She had a shawl that her <em>père<em> had given her, but it was threadbare, and her blouse was ragged, and she was barefoot. Last winter she'd had stockings, Éponine had given her stockings, but now she was barefoot and she couldn't even feel her toes anymore as she pushed her way through the deepening snow.

Twilight was blooming over the city, and Azelma was pretty sure she was lost. Éponine knew her way about, and from what she'd heard little Gavroche spent all his days running about all over the city, but Azelma had always stayed quite close to home unless she was with her sister. She'd never dreamed that it would be so easy to become turned around in the rabbit's warren that was the Quartier Latin. She had been out for most of the day every day since New Year's, wandering the city and trying to track down Éponine. All she'd managed to do was to narrow down her search to this neighborhood, but it was still a big area and she didn't know the place.

"_Mon Dieu_, why am I doing this?" she whispered to herself. But she knew the answer to that, didn't she? A bitter smile crossed her face at the thought of Montparnasse. She hated him... but only because he wanted only her sister.

When had it first started, Azelma wondered? They had met Montparnasse about a year after coming to Paris. She had been just twelve, and Éponine thirteen. Montparnasse, two years Éponine's senior, had worked with their father and the Patron-Minette, and he'd helped the girls out of a few jams of their own. Azelma had idolized him, always. He was so handsome- handsomer than Éponine's Monsieur Marius, that was for sure!- and smart and sometimes he would bring them a little bread, if he had anything to spare. He paid attention to them when nobody else would. For as long as she'd known him, Azelma had dreamed that one day Montparnasse would look at her and realize he loved her.

It had never happened. It was all Éponine's fault, of course. All their lives, Azelma had been the pretty one. She had the better figure, she had the fine green eyes, she had the finer features, and by rights she deserved Montparnasse. After they left the inn and things got rough, neither of them could conceivably have been called beautiful, but even then Azelma was still considered the pretty one. Except then something had changed. Even living like shit under bridges and in haylofts and wherever else, Éponine had somehow bloomed and grown into a wretched sort of beauty almost overnight. For once, the elder sister was the pretty one, and Montparnasse never looked at Azelma again.

She still had a chance to get part of him, though. If she found Éponine like he asked her (and she wasn't going to think about what he wanted with her sister), he'd promised to give her more than that little almost-kiss from New Year's. It wasn't what she wanted, but it would do, and maybe with time she could make him love her.

Azelma shivered. Across the road, the lights of a tavern gleamed in the gathering darkness. A rowdy tavern, to Azelma, always spoke of home. Maybe someone there could help her.

She ran across to the building and stepped inside, feeling the flush of heat that swept through her as she came in out of the cold. For a few minutes she just stood there just inside the door, leaning against the wall and reveling in the warmth.

She did not go unnoticed for long, however. "What d'you want?" asked a rough-looking woman with an apron tied around her waist.

"I... nothing, I... I just..."

"If you aren't going to buy anything, you'd best be leaving," the woman said.

Azelma stuck out her chin. "I just wanted to warm up for a moment!" she protested.

The woman eyed Azelma's bare feet and her expression softened a little. "Fine then," she said. "But you be keeping out of the way of paying customers! Don't bother nobody." She turned and headed back in the direction of the kitchens.

"Wait!" Azelma cried.

She turned. "What now?"

"I'm looking for someone."

The woman crossed her arms. "And who would that be?"

Azelma hesitated, debating. She was actually looking for her sister, but the odds of anybody seeing and remembering a girl as plain and unremarkable as Éponine seemed slim. Remembering the handsome man who had come to the Gorbeau House and said he was going to marry her, though... that was much more likely.

"His name is Enjolras," she said. "He's tall and-"

"And gorgeous as anything, right?" the woman said with a smirk.

Azelma nodded.

"Yes, I know him. He's a familiar face in these parts."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"Aye, my nephew is acquainted with him, in a roundabout way. He's on the Rue Royer-Collard. It's not far from here."

"Thank you!" Azelma exclaimed, turning and making for the door.

Before she could return to the cold outdoors, however, the woman spoke up. "Wait just a minute, child. I don't know why you're looking for him-" Her tone plainly suggested, however, that she had a few good guesses. "-but you're wasting your time. That boy's been a regular patron here for years and never once has he shown an eye for the ladies." She ran her eyes over Azelma's beleaguered appearance and smirked. "If you think you'll do better, you're deceiving yourself. Monsieur Enjolras is as celibate as a monk."

Azelma blushed at the insinuation and ran out the door.

She let out a little gasp as her tingling feet were buried six inches deep in snow, but ventured forth nonetheless. She repeated the name of the street to herself, over and over so she wouldn't forget it. Once she was sure of remembering, another thought began to intrude on her mind: the memory of the serving-woman's parting words. _Monsieur Enjolras is as celibate as a monk_.

_If that's true_, she asked herself,_ then what is he doing with my sister?_

* * *

><p>Éponine stared out the window. It was growing dark, not a hint of sun visible behind the heavy clouds that were still dropping snow over the city. It was perhaps five o'clock, and the lamplighters had not been out. She wasn't surprised. Sometimes in the very worst storms of winter, the street lights went unlit for days. She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane.<p>

"It was snowing like this when we first came to Paris," she said.

Behind her, Enjolras looked up from his book, but said nothing.

"I suppose that must have been four or five years ago now. I'm not quite sure anymore. We were on the run, see. Papa had borrowed too much money, and when Little Cosette's mother quit paying us, he couldn't make the payments, and the creditors were after us. They took the inn- did I ever tell you we ran an inn?"

"No."

She smiled bitterly at her reflection in the dark glass in front of her. "Well, we did. The Sergeant of Waterloo. Best inn in Montfermeil they called it, and it was. _Maman_ was never much of a cook, but we did good business. We were well-off. If Papa had kept his nose clean, we would have been petty bourgeois, at least. Azelma and I had lots of pretty dresses. But then somehow it went wrong. I never quite knew how it happened, but it did and we ran in the middle of the night, just packed up a few bags and left. It was Christmastime."

Enjolras wasn't sure what had prompted her to tell him this now. He wondered if she was really telling him because she wanted him to know, or if she simply felt the need to say it out loud. He knew she sometimes talked to herself when she was trying to puzzle something out.

"We lived under the bridges for a long time," she continued. "We changed our name so our creditors wouldn't find us. That was how my father started taking up assumed names. I was so spoiled then, and I hated it so much. Being poor, I mean. I wasn't used to it. It was better in the summer. _Maman_ had work, sometimes, and it's easier to steal fruit from the market in the summertime. Oh, but you wouldn't approve of that, would you?" She glanced briefly over her shoulder at him, apologetic. "It's wrong to steal, I suppose, but sometimes you just have to do things."

"I would not know about that," he said, "But I do know that people do not do immoral things unless they have no other choice."

"Tell that to my father," Éponine muttered.

For awhile they were both silent. Then she started up again. "That first winter was bad," she said. "Sometimes at night it was so cold, Azelma would cry. I tried to help, but I wasn't any warmer so that didn't do much good. I wonder if she's keeping warm now. I hope she is. And Gavroche, too."

"Who is Gavroche?" Enjolras asked.

She turned away from the window at last to look at him properly. "My brother," she said, a warm smile gracing her mouth.

"You have a brother?"

She nodded. "He's ten years old. He doesn't live with us anymore."

"Why not?"

She sat down next to him, looking reflective. "He yelled at our father one too many times. 'Course, I've done that, too. Except Papa was smart enough not to try and throw me out. My mother wouldn't have stood for that, but Gavroche..." She sighed. "There was nobody to speak up for him. When Papa sent him away, I didn't even try to stop it. I should have, shouldn't I?"

Enjolras wondered how best to answer. His instinctive reaction was to shake her and ask what kind of sister would not stand up to defend her brother, but his experience with the Thenardier family, such as it was, had taught him never to assume anything. He struggled to form a calm response that wouldn't hurt her, but Éponine, for her part, seemed to have worked out an answer for herself.

"Yes," she said firmly, mostly to herself. "I should have tried, anyway. But I can't change the past, and really, he's happier now. He's free, and he eats better on his own than he did when he was depending on Papa for meals."

"Éponine?"

"What?"

"Why are you telling me all this?"

She shrugged. "I felt like it. And it's the sort of thing friends ought to know about each other."

He was surprised by her response. Somehow, it was easy to think of Éponine as simply beginning at the moment he had met her, as if her life had just been on standby until he had taken her off the street for somewhat selfish reasons. And yet, she was right. He hardly knew anything about her life prior to becoming engaged to her. He had wondered, sometimes, what it was that had made her the person she had become, but he never thought to just ask. It was easy enough to simply accept that she was who she was and move on, because most of the time her company was quite pleasant and that was good enough for him. Still, there was much to be said for knowing ones friends very well, and it was more important with Éponine than most, as she was a rather permanent fixture in his life.

"I suppose you're right," he said.

* * *

><p><strong>AN-** This chapter is pretty meh. I won't say it Totally And Completely Sucks, but it's not fantastic. Sorry. It's really all over the place, where I like my chapters, ordinarily, to be pretty unified. Still, we covered some important ground, so that's all good.


	17. 16: Tyrants

**A/N-** I can't decide if this counts as uber-fluff or character-building. You be the judge.

I've had this half-written for months, but my ADD-aflicted muse decided to wander off to another fandom for awhile and I couldn't find it in me to finish it. I'm full of inspiration for this and all my stories, but I seem to be stuck with a complete inability to put words into sentences that make any sense. Everything comes out flat and uninspired, for which I'm rather sorry. Full of brilliant _thoughts_ without the brilliant _words_ in which to couch them... GAH.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 16<br>January 5th, 1831_

Enjolras resisted the urge to sigh as he tried, for what had to be the tenth time that morning, to return his disrupted attention to the book he was trying unsuccessfully to read. The snow had piled up during the night, preventing them from even leaving the building. Attempting to reach the university was impossible let alone the cafe, and he had thought to dedicate the day to catching up on some reading he had been putting off, but it was beginning to seem that this might be equally unlikely. He had known from the start that his wife had a tendency to chatter. She could out-talk even Grantaire, on a good day. What he had somehow failed to notice until now was the fact that Éponine also _sang_.

She was wandering around the little flat, singing what he guessed must be the latest popular aria in what he was quite sure had to be the most distracting manner imaginable. Her voice was not ideal, being a little rough from brandy and bad living conditions, but he noted that she had a surprisingly good sense of pitch.

This continued for some time, and he could not restrain a wince as she butchered the Italian lyrics.

"Do you _always_ do this?" he asked.

She broke off and glanced at him, dark eyes inquisitive. "Do what?"

"Sing."

Éponine smirked. "Am I annoying you?"

"Just a little."

At that, she laughed outright. "No, I don't _always_, but sometimes it is nice to sing a bit, don't you think? It brightens up a day when the weather is bad." Suddenly, a shrewd look crossed her face as she eyed him curiously. "Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever heard you sing."

Enjolras shook his head. "I don't sing."

"What?" Éponine exclaimed, looking disbelieving. "I can't believe that!"

He shrugged. "I don't."

She sat down on the arm of his chair and pulled the book from his hands.

"What are you doing? Give that back!" he protested.

Éponine smirked in that way he had come to associate with yet another round of teasing. "Not until you let me hear you sing!"

"No."

"Come on, Antoine, I want to hear you sing!"

"Éponine, I do not find this amusing. Give me the book back," he said sternly.

She must have seen from his expression that he was serious, because her delighted expression slipped somewhat and her shoulders sagged as she extended the book to him. As he took it back, he noted that she had held his page for him.

"Sorry," she muttered, avoiding his eyes. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Believe me, you don't," he said firmly. "It's why I don't sing. I just haven't the voice for it."

"Well, neither have I, and it doesn't stop me!" she said, spirits rising again. "Sometimes it doesn't matter whether you sound nice or not. The music speaks for itself!"

He looked at her in utter bewilderment. He knew many "accomplished" women, and the pride of their little collection of petty skills was invariably a fine singing voice. Even among the ladies his friends entertained on a regular basis, it was rare to come across one who had not spent some time training her voice, in order to provide entertainment for her friends and lovers. Any of them would have been mortified by Éponine's suggestion that the music, and not the singer, was of higher value.

"You are a strange girl," he said quietly.

"So they say," she said with a little smile. She slipped off the arm of his chair and returned to her own usual seat, taking up the book she had abandoned an hour earlier.

Companionable silence reigned in the apartment for some time, but Enjolras found it was no easier than before to concentrate on his reading. His eyes kept being drawn back to Éponine quite against his will. She continued to draw him in, and he couldn't explain it even to himself. He had never had a friend like Éponine in the whole of his life and he didn't know what to make of her, even after living in the same quarters with her for nearly a month.

She looked better, he observed. The unhealthy color malnutrition and exposure had given her skin was gone, and the starved, skeletal look was starting to fade. With good food and regular bathing, her hair was starting to get shiny again and her complexion was beginning to grow rosy.

He realized suddenly that he had been staring at her for several minutes. He quickly turned his eyes back to his book.

"What is she like?"

Enjolras looked up at her again. "Who?"

"This woman your father wanted you to marry, that started all this-" She gestured between them, "-in the first place."

"Does it matter?"

She shrugged. "It's not _important_, but I'm curious. What kind of a girl does a man like your father think is appropriate for his son?"

"A very dull kind," Enjolras replied ruefully. "Hyacinthe is the daughter of one of my father's rather well-to-do associates and that is, as far as I am concerned, all that she really has to recommend her."

"How tremendously insightful," Éponine said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I could have guessed at least that much, or something close to it, on my own! Tell me really, what is she like? Have you known her long?"

"Yes, I have known her all my life. Hyacinthe, François and I grew up together in Lyon."

Éponine studied him with a puzzled look on her face. "But if she's an old friend, shouldn't that-"

"No."

"But you've known her for so long. Surely you-"

"No. Hyacinthe was a pest as a child and has grown into an annoyance as a young woman. She is beautiful, yes. She is educated, yes. But she is also vain, and vapid, and incapable of thinking beyond the end of next week," Enjolras said firmly, and perhaps a bit more loudly than he had intended.

Éponine's eyes widened at his outburst, and an amused chuckle burst from her throat. "Oh, you would kill each other in a week!" she exclaimed.

Enjolras' lips curled up in a little smirk. "I doubt that very much. I would stew and grouse and grow very annoyed with her, and she would bend compliantly to everything I said. She would never argue, even if she thought I was wrong... _if_ she gave thought enough to any matter to decide for herself! She would never cross me intentionally, and when she did so unintentionally she would immediately do everything in her power to rectify it and appease me. I would hold court in my own home, commanding her to my whims even when I did not particularly want to do so."

"Her own nature would force you to be a tyrant. Bound to her, you would become exactly what you most despise, in miniature," Éponine observed, nodding in comprehension.

He stared at her. "Yes," he said quietly. "I had not thought of it quite like that, but that is precisely true."

"Well it's a good thing you've married me, then!" she said with a delighted grin. "You can try very well to command me, but whether you'll succeed or not is another matter!"

Enjolras couldn't help but smile at that. "I know that to be the truth!" he said. "You do not comply to anyone's wishes easily... even when it might be in your better interests."

She nodded, looking exceptionally proud of herself. "No chance of you becoming a tyrant with me around, no indeed!"

"If anything, there's an even chance of _you_ becoming a tyrant," Enjolras said thoughtfully."

Éponine shuddered and made a face. "Lord, I hope not! I'm already far too much like my father for my own comfort."

"I do not think you are," Enjolras replied.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled in the manner of one who is appeasing the delusional. "You're sweet to say so, Antoine."


End file.
